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Dry  Stories 


BY 


NARNIE    HARRISON    BELL 


TO  THE  BOYS  OF  TEXAS 

This  Book  is  Affectionately  Dedicated 

By 

The  Author 


h. 


19  15 

TELEGRAM  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Temple,  Texas 


.  I 

.&3. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  COTTON  PATCH 


A  Woman's  Strategem 


When  Anne  Winter  looked  down  at  the 
face  of  her  first-born,  she  felt  that  mother- 
hood was  the  supreme  event  of  a  woman's 
existence. 

She  had  been  a  clever  artist  in  her  time; 
had  painted  some  pictures  that  people 
talked  of  noisily,  had  decorated  the  ceil- 
ing of  a  big  church  in  a  big  town,  and 
done  a  portrait  in  oil  of  one  of  the  ladies 
of  the  cabinet. 

But  on  a  certain  January  morning  all 
this  seemed  mere  nothingness  to  the  light 
touch  of  tiny  pink  fingers  like  a  drift  of 
rose  leaves  on  her  breast.  The  babe  had 
wailed  because  it  had  come  into  this  big, 
brutal  world,  and  when  she  had  hushed  its 
wailing,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she,  Anne 
Winter,  for  the  first  time  counted  for 
something  in  this  world.  For  the  first 
time,  she  was  a  real  factor  in  the  history 
of  humanity. 

Her  psychic  senses  seemed  so  quickened 
that  the  simplest  things  had  a  new  signif- 
icance, and  everything  in  earth  or  heaven 
circled  about  that  infant's  head.  A  strip 
of  sunlight  coming  through  the  shutter, 
and  falling  across  the  brow  of  the  child, 
was,  to  her,  the  prophecy  of  a  brilliant 
career;  old  nigger  July  told  her  that  the 
tiny  purplish  V  in  the  middle  of  the  fore- 
head was  **a  shore  sign  he'd  git  money — 
lots  of  it,"  and  the  nurse  declared  that 
she  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  babies,  and 


2  DRY  STORIES 

she  never  saw  a  baby  yet  with  its  ears 
doubled  up  like  that,  who  didn't  have 
temper — plenty,  and  to  spare.  Anne 
smiled  contentedly.  That  was  all  right. 
Everything  was  all  right  today.  Temper 
meant  force  of  character,  Anne  said 
proudly. 

The  child  was  a  boy — otherwise  this 
force  of  character  would  have  been  rated 
a  defect  unmentioned  by  either  nurse  or 
mother.  He  looked  exactly  like  his  father, 
of  course;  that  chin,  which  was  really 
nothing  but  a  wrinkled  cushion  of  pink 
velvet,  was  **Marse  John  Winter  over 
agin — wasn't  nothing  'bout  'im  like  Miss 
Anne  'ceptin'  jes'  the  look  outen  his  eyes" 
— there  wasn't  any  look  yet. 

Anne  thought  that  the  shape  of  the 
baby's  head  resembled  pictures  she  had 
seen  of  Daniel  Webster  or  Henry  Clay — 
she  had  forgotten  which.  She  was  ashamed 
to  tell  this  to  anybody  but  July,  who  re- 
torted, "Clay — who's  he?  Hump,  'is  head 
looks  like  a  red  apple — a  big,  fine  red  ap- 
ple, though.  Miss  Anne — to  me — but  jes 
look  at  that  mouf,  ain't  it  jes'  zackly  like 
his  daddy? — jes'  for  the  world." 

A  light  sigh  fluttered  from  Anne  Win- 
ter's lips,  and  a  shadow  dimmed  the  edge 
of  her  golden  day.  Her  husband  had  not 
yet  held  their  first-born  in  his  arms.  This 
morning  he  had  to  hurry  to  his  work  in 
the  city,  and  could  not  possibly  come  back 
at  noon.  But  how  eagerly  she  waited  his 
home-coming  tonight,  for  Anne  Winter 
thought  when  she  should  see  her  husband, 
tall  and  strong,  standing  beside  her,  hold- 
ing on  his  arm  this  wee  bit  of  humanity, 
this  little  life,  which  meant  so  much  to 
both  of  them,  a  new  bond,  more  sacred 
and  more  tender  than  before,  would  bind 
their  lives  together.     Surely,  she  said  to 


DRY  STORIES  3 

herself,  he  would  come  home  all  right  to- 
night— this,  the  first  night  when  they 
could  talk  together  about  *'our  boy." 

For  the  dark  thread  running  through 
the  golden  pattern  of  today  was  the  sick- 
ening fear  that  John  would  not  be  **at 
himself'  tonight.  The  nights  when  he  was 
not  at  himself  were  too  many  in  the  last 
year — though  things  had  been  better  of 
late,  and  she  had  hoped  that  the  child's 
coming  would  lead  him  away  from  the 
hateful  habit  which  scorched  his  life  and 
hers.  Then  a  happy,  helpful  thought  came 
to  her.  Calling  the  nurse  she  dictated  a 
note  to  her  husband,  which  she  gave  to 
old  July  to  take  to  him  at  his  work.  She 
asked  him  to  be  sure  to  stop  at  a  certain 
dry-goods  store  on  his  way  home  tonight, 
and  buy  the  baby  a  shawl,  blue  and  white, 
with  soft  fringes,  she  had  seen  in  the  win- 
dow there. 

Then  she  gave  the  note  to  the  old  negro, 
charging  her  especially  not  to  wait  for  an 
answer.  **Hand  it  to  Mr.  John,*'  she  said, 
**and  hurry  away,  without  even  waiting 
for  him  to  read  it,  do  you  understand?" 
Old  July  nodded.  She  understood  very 
well.  She  had  helped  in  such  tactful 
strategems  before. 

.  Then  Anne  lay  back  on  her  pillow  and 
closed  her  eyes,  with  a  smile  on  her  lips. 
She  felt  that  she  had  saved  the  day.  For 
him  to  buy  the  shawl  on  his  way  home 
was  to  go  to  a  dry-goods  store  near  by. 
To  go  to  the  dry-goods  store  was  to  miss 
the  saloon  on  the  other  side.  To  miss  the 
saloon,  was  to  miss  his  chiefest  tempta- 
tion. Thus  she  felt  that  she  had  done  the 
very  best  thing  to  bring  him  home  as  he 
should  be  tonight. 

Just  let  him  come  home  sober  to  her 
and  the  wee  laddie  tonight,  and  surely  his 


DRY  STORIES 


tender  heart  would  feel  the  sanctity  of  the 
hour.  She  would  not  say  one  word  to  him 
of  reform — only  she  knew  that  the  solemn 
power  of  their  first  night  together  with 
their  first-born  would  consecrate  him  to  a 
better  life,  if  the  heart  and  brain  were 
clear  to  feel,  to  understand.  Tonight  was 
a  pivot  in  the  history  of  her  life.  She  had 
done  well.  All  would  be  right,  and  swiftly 
Anne  Winter's  thoughts  ran  along  the 
years  before  her;  ran  as  a  river  singing 
and  smiling  to  the  sea.  Soon  she  would 
hold  the  babe  to  the  window  at  night  to 
reach  for  the  slim,  new  moon,  and  a  little 
later  to  smile  at  the  flash  of  spring's  first 
bluebird  through  a  slant  of  silver  rain. 
How  quickly  would  come  the  days  when 
his  small  fingers  would  curl  around  hers, 
and  she  would  lead  him  out  to  the  garden 
to  tiptoe  for  the  half-open  lily  buds. 

Children  grew  so  fast,  people  told  her, 
and  how  soon,  he  and  she  would  stand 
side  by  side  watching  the  rose-flush  fade 
from  the  West,  and  the  sentinel  stars  come 
out.  Then  later  they  would  go  down  into 
the  fields  and  drive  the  cows  home,  while 
they  heard  the  birds  call  from  the  thicket 
edging  the  meadow  pond.  She  would 
teach  her  boy  to  see  and  to  hear  the  beau- 
tiful. To  see  and  to  hear  it  would  be  to 
love  it.  To  love  the  pure  and  beautiful, 
would  be  to  despise  the  vile  and  base.  So, 
lying  there,  and  dreaming  on,  she  saw  the 
wee  one  leap  into  years,  when  he  hated 
vice  and  the  homes  and  haunts  of  it.  He 
would  be  careful  of  everything  weak  and 
helpless  that  crossed  his  path,  would  step 
,  aside  from  the  cricket  in  the  grass  lest  he 
should  crush  its  chirp — would  be  tender 
with  the  little  new  wobbly  calf,  or  the  old 
tottering  beggar  passing  by — she  saw  him 
a    big    boy,    strong,    yet    tender,    so    her 


DRY  STORIES 


thoughts  ran — and  she  smiled,  trying 
hard  to  come  back  to  the  now  and  here. 
But  not  yet;  she  saw  her  boy  sitting  by 
his  father's  knee  in  the  evening-time,  and 
listening  to  his  father's  tales  of  many 
things. 

The  father  would  tell  him  great  beauti- 
ful stories  of  great,  beautiful  Texas,  his 
parents'  native  state;  and  the  boy  would 
sit  rapt  in  listening — of  course  he  would. 
There  would  be  the  story  of  the  Alamo, 
how  Crockett  fell,  and  Bowie  smiling, 
though  pierced  with  gaping  wounds;  how 
Travis  had  his  cot  lifted  across  the  line 
to  fight,  and  how  all  the  Texans  died 
there,  scorning  the  surrender  offered  them 
by  the  swarthy  Mexicans.  John  would 
tell  him  how  only  one  woman  and  a  girl 
babe  were  left,  who  slipped  out  to  life  and 
freedom  from  their  pitiless  enemies. 

And  John  and  she  would  know  that  the 
blessedness  of  the  hour  was  but  the  lineal 
descendant  of  that  pivotal  first  night, 
when  he,  sober,  strong,  stood  by  her,  and 
in  that  first  night  with  her  first-born, 
renounced  his  vice  and  consecrated  him- 
self to  a  better  life.  That  brought  her 
back  to  the  now,  and  the  light  stir  of  the 
wee  one  at  her  side.  Tonight  they  would 
decide  on  the  baby's  name. 

Just  then  she  heard  old  July's  return- 
ing step.  As  she  entered  the  room,  Anne 
lifted  eager,  questioning  eyes.  The  old 
negro  shook  her  head  sadly:  **He  made 
me  wait,"  she  said,  and  then  added 
brokenly,  **he  sent  the  shawl." 

Then  she  wrapped  the  shawl,  blue  and 
white,  with  soft  fringes,  about  the  sleep- 
ing child. 

Anne  Winter  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall  and  wept. 


The  Emancipation  of  Bill 


Marietta  Hopkins  belonged  to  the  smart 
set,  so  her  wedding  day  meant  weeks  of 
preparation.  Picture  hats,  shower  bou- 
quets, lavalliere,  Lohengrin — all  of  it — 
was  ready  at  high  noon — everything  but 
the  groom. 

The  society  editor  of  the  local  news- 
paper wrote  a  delicate  paragraph  for  the 
next  day's  issue,  which  stated  that  the 
bridegroom  had  ^'mysteriously  disappear- 
ed on  his  wedding  day;  that  foul  play 
was  suspected,  and  the  bride-to-be  was 
prostrated." 

Coarser  folks  said  bluntly  that  **Syd 
Stowers  had  skipped;  he  had  not  been  long 
in  the  place,  and  thought  Marietta  was 
rich,  found  out  his  mistake,  and  being  in 
it  up  to  his  n.eck,  had  simply  jumped  the 
town.  But  coarse  people  will  say  coarse 
things. 

Marietta's  heart  was  too  elastic  to  keep 
an  open  wound.  Her  vanity,  however,  so 
suffered  that  she  could  not  face  the 
smart  set  in  which  she  moved  and  had  her 
being. 

That  is  why  she  wrote  a  little  letter  to 
her  uncle  Philip  in  Terrytown  asking 
him  to  secure  her  the  position  of  teacher 
in  the  country  school  at  the  close  of  the 
free  school  term. 

So  she  put  away  the  fluffy  trousseau, 
packed  her  smallest  trunk  with  her  plain- 
est clothes,  and  took  the  train  to  Terry- 


DRY  STORIES  7 

town,  comforted  in  imagining  the  social 
stir  that  her  absence  would  create. 

Even  in  her  simplest  clothes,  Marietta 
was  a  marvel  to  Terrytown.  Her  dainty 
apparel,  her  delicate  beauty,  her  quick, 
light  step — all  of  her,  so  permeated  the 
dingy  little  place  that  every  morning  on 
her  way  to  school,  she  was  stared  at  by 
half  the  population;  by  some  with  shy 
suspicion — the  women  mainly — by  others 
with  wide-eyed  reverence. 

Chief  among  the  latter  was  Bill  Wilson, 
the  biggest,  stillest  boy  in  school.  Bill 
had  grown  up  in  the  place,  but  had  little 
to  do  with  Terrytown  or  with  Terrytown 
folks;  was  generally  alone,  walking  main- 
ly in  the  woods,  staring  up  at  the  trees  or 
stooping  down  to  the  grass,  mumbling 
sometimes  to  himself,  until  Terrytown 
shook  her  head  when  she  spoke  of  him, 
tapped  her  forehead,  and  whispered 
**queer.'' 

Bill  was  queer.  He  had  day-dreams 
that  Terrytown  knew  not,  and  Marietta 
Hopkins  was  to  him,  the  incarnation  of 
one  of  these. 

He  first  saw  her  as  she  was  leaving 
the  post  office  with  a  big  square  letter  in 
her  hand. 

The  only  gew-gaw  that  Marietta  had 
brought  with  her  was  the  engagement 
ring  on  her  finger.  It  flashed  under  Bill's 
eye,  causing  him  to  turn,  look  and  stumble 
backward  in  the  rapturous  surprise  of 
seeing  one  of  his  dreams  in  flesh  and 
blood  beside  him.  Marietta  smiled  at  the 
stumble,  and  passed  out. 

After  that  he  sat  silent  in  the  school 
room,  while  the  teacher  went  mechani- 
cally through  the  classes,  unconscious  of 
her  biggest  pupiFs  adoration. 


DRY  STORIES 


He  dared  not  speak  to  her,  nor  to  come 
near  her.     He  worshiped  afar. 

One  afternoon  when  school  was  dis- 
missed and  Bill  waited — it  being  his  turn 
to  sweep  the  school  house — he  was  amazed 
at  the  daring  of  Mandy  Meadows,  who 
walked  to  the  teacher's  desk,  talked  easily 
with  her,  just  as  she  would  with  a  Terry- 
town  woman,  even  toyed  with  the  ring  on 
Marietta's  white  hand  as  she  arranged 
the  bunch  of  wild  flowers,  placed  there 
in  secret  by  Bill. 

**That  a  dimint.  Miss  Hopkins?**  Mandy 
asked,  touching  the  stone. 

**Yes,  a  fine  stone,'*  answered  Marietta. 
**I*m  a  judge  of  diamonds,  if  I  am  any- 
thing. My  father  let  me  select  this  for 
my  graduation  gift,  and  the  jeweler  said 
that  I  guessed  correctly  the  value  of  near- 
ly all  the  stones  he  showed  me.  I  know 
a  real  diamond  the  minute  I  see  one.** 

**There*s  a  whole  lot  o*  dimints  berried 
some*ers  in  Terrytown,**  Mandy  remarked. 

**Why,  where?**  Marietta  was  all  inter- 
est, and  Mandy  delighted  to  give  the  new 
teacher  the  chief  tradition  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

Bill  slouched  out,  taking  his  pencil  and 
tablet  to  the  flat  rock  by  the  spring. 

He  had  heard  that  old  story  of  the 
buried  treasure  ever  since  he  could  re- 
member. He  knew  every  word  that  Man-^ 
dy  would  say,  and  he  was  sick  of  it.  So 
he  would  sit  by  the  spring  till  they  left. 
Besides,  he  had  for  many  days  been  trying 
to  write  a  letter  to  his  teacher,  but  always 
ended  by  tearing  it  up.  He  was  determined 
to  write  one  today,  and  to  hand  it  to  her 
himself,  unwilling  to  risk  it  in  any  mes- 
senger*s  hands. 

Inside  the  school  house,  Mandy  droned 


DRY  STORIES  9 

out  the  story,  and  Marietta  listened 
eagerly. 

**Yer  see,  Miss  Hopkins,  that  there  big 
white  house  up  yonder  on  the  top  of  that 
there  hill?  Old  Miss  Nancy  Brown  lives 
up  there  by  herself — she*s  kinder  half- 
witted, yer  know/'     Marietta  nodded. 

*'Well,  her  brother,  Mr.  George  Brown, 
he  was  rich,  orful  rich,  made  it  ever  bit  er 
farmin',  and  he  died  an  left  jes*  Miss 
Nancy.  She  was  his  sister.  Well,  afore 
he  died  he  made  his  will" — here  Mandy 
had  to  stop  to  swallow — it  always  made 
her  mouth  water  to  tell  a  tale — **an  he — 
er — he  said  in  his  will  he  had  done  took 
all  his  money  and  bought  dimmits — 
dimints  with  ever  bit  uv  everything — only 
jest  the  home  fer  Miss  Nancy,  an  he  'lowed 
in  his  will  as  he  had  made  all  his  money 
by  diggin' — yer  see  he  wuz  a  farmer — he 
'lowed  'at  anybody  what  got  his  money 
would  have  to  dig  fer  it — yer  see  he  hid 
the  dimints — berried  'em,  Miss  Hopkins," 
Nancy  brought  her  fist  down  on  the  desk, 
**and  anybody  what  finds  'em  by  diggin' 
gits  'em — that's  eggsackly  how  the  will 
reads." 

*'Has  any  one  ever  looked  for  them?" 
Marietta  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

**Lord!  Everybody  in  Terrytown  has 
been  a  diggin'  ever  since  the  ole  man 
Brown  died.  Miss  Nancy  starts  into  dig- 
gin' fresh  ever  spring.  Some  folks  'lows 
that's  what  Bill  Wilson  is  after,  a-goin' 
around  so  much  by  hisself  a-lookin'  like 
he's  a-lookin'  for  sumpin' — but  I  don't 
think  Bill  keers  nothin'  'bout  them  di- 
mints. He's  so  curus  like — he  jest  likes 
the  wild  things  in  the  woods,  I'm  thinkin'. 
He  talks  to  'em  plum  frenly,  the  rabbits 
an'  birds  an'  things.  He's  out  there  now 
a-lyin'  on  the  big  flat  rock  by  the  spring, 


10  DRY  STORIES 


a-waitin'  fer  us  to  go  so  he  can  sweep,  I 
reckon/' 

As  they  left  the  school  house,  Bill  fol- 
lowed close,  his  heart  beating  thickly  un- 
der the  letter  in  his  breast  pocket.  He 
would  hand  it  to  Marietta  when  Mandy 
left  her,  and  then  go  quickly  away  for  the 
school  mistress  to  read  it  alone.  The 
sweeping  would  be  done  afterward. 

And  this  is  the  letter  Bill  wrote: 

'*My  Dear  Miss  Hopkins: 

**I  want  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that 
you  come  down  here  to  teach.  I  have 
dreampt  about  folks  like  you  are,  and 
wisht  I  could  be  around  them  ever  day, 
so  as  I  could  kinder  lift  myself  up  to  the 
things  they  think  about.  Since  I  seen  you 
it's  easy.  Can't  tell  you  what  I  mean,  but 
I  will  jest  say:  To  know  you  and  see  you 
makes  me  want  to  try  harder  to  be  bet- 
ter ever  day,  and  to  make  a  good  true 
man,  like  folks  are,  that  are  like  you. 
**Your  scholar, 

**William  Wilson." 

When  Mandy  turned  into  the  road  lead- 
ing apart  from  the  school  mistress,  Bill 
quickened  his  steps.  Instead  of  going 
home.  Marietta  walked  straight  up  the 
hill  toward  the  big  white  house  where 
half-witted  Nancy  lived. 

Bill's  hand  was  on  the  letter  ready  to 
deliver  it  as  soon  as  he  dared.  Passing 
a  clump  of  trees,  they  came  on  Miss  Nancy 
digging  by  the  hedge-row,  enclosing  the 
garden  plot.  Marietta  slackened  her  steps 
and  gazed  at  the  woman  curiously,  just  as 
Miss  Nancy  with  a  smothered  cry,  dropped 
her  hoe,  fell  on  her  knees,  picked  up  a 
moldly  leathern  bag,  and  sitting  flat  on 
the  ground,  hurriedly  poured  the  contents 
into  her  lap. 


DRY  STORIES  11 


Marietta  leaned  over  the  hedge  breath- 
lessly. She  could  touch  old  Nancy's  shoul- 
der, and  she  looked  excitedly  at  the  flash- 
ing heap  of  gems  on  the  worn  gingham 
apron. 

Bill  waited  close  behind. 

After  a  moment's  careful  scrutiny,  Mar- 
ietta spoke  lightly,  touching  Nancy's  arm. 

**Come,"  she  said  coaxingly,  "sell  me 
those  glass  beads,  will  you?" 

Nancy  shook  her  head,  folding  her 
apron  over  the  pile  of  rainbows. 

"Why,  they  are  nothing  but  beads — 
glass  beads,"  Marietta  persisted.  "I'll  give 
you  a  dollar  for  them.  See,  here  it  is.  I 
want  them  to  make  a  necklace  for  my 
little  sister's  doll!    Come,  don't  be  a  fool." 

For  answer,  Nancy,  half-crouching,  half 
walking,  slipped  stealthily  into  the  house, 
guarding  her  precious  gems. 

Marietta,  muttering  her  vexation,  turn- 
ed homeward. 

Bill  stepped  out  of  sight  behind  the 
clump  of  trees,  holding  to  a  branch,  a  lit- 
tle, to  steady  himself. 

When  the  school  mistress  had  passed 
on,  he  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  and 
because  of  his  hands  trembling,  tore  it 
into  bits  with  his  teeth.  The  wind  lifting 
it,  scattered  it  through  the  woods.  That 
moment  was  the  emancipation  of  Bill. 

And  the  end  was  but  an  expression  of 
the  beginning,  as  it  always  is. 

Way  back  in  the  early  days  of  Ken- 
tucky, the  blue  grass  region  knew  a  Hop- 
kins family — blue-blooded,  high  stepping, 
they  called  themselves.  Race  horses 
stamping  in  the  stables,  cellars  full  of 
wine,  old  Bourbon  flashing  on  the  side- 
board —  gentlemen  of  leisure  lolling, 
drinking,  drowsing,  telling  tales  of  wom- 
en and  of  wine.     Children  were  born  who 


12  DRY  STORIES 

did  likewise.  Their  children  thought  the 
same  thoughts,  of  course,  but  a  slow  grow- 
ing depletion  of  finances  made  the  doing 
impossible. 

As  years  went  on  there  was  a  falling 
away  of  fine  horses  and  bursting  barns, 
and  the  cellar's  supply  grew  scantier.  But 
there  was  always  the  haughty  spirit,  the 
love  of  luxury,  the  desire  for  show. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  one  of 
the  Hopkins  men  forged  a  check  to  try  to 
save  the  stud  that  would  soon  be  led  from 
the  barn. 

Gradually  integrity  of  soul  had  been 
drowned  in  the  Hopkins  family — drowned 
by  drink  and  by  pomposity.  Among  this 
forger's  last  remaining  servants,  was  one 
Bill  Y/ilson,  a  gardener,  who  worshiped 
his  master,  as  being  far  above  himself. 

But  the  old  gardener  chanced  to  see  him 
sign  a  check  with  a  name  not  his  own,  and 
his  loyalty  was  scorched  into  nothingness 
at  the  sight. 

Heredity  is  unconquerable,  though  a 
strong  hand  may  handle  it  with  bit  and 
rein.  Knowing  this,  can  we  blame  Mari- 
ietta,  or  can  we  wonder  at  Bill? 


My  Friend,  Dan  Morgan 


We  boast  much  of  America's  democ- 
racy, but  I  believe  that  every  city  ward 
has  its  boss,  every  village  its  despotic 
ruler. 

If  you  should  go  into  straggly,  crooked 
little  Harrisburg,  Tennessee,  any  day 
about  sundown,  you  could  tell,  with  a 
half  eye,  who  was  Harrisburg's  un- 
crowned king. 

You  would  see  him  standing  in  front  of 
a  group  of  men  seated  on  two  long  benches 
before  Dan  Morgan's  blacksmith  shop. 

For  an  hour  between  working  time  and 
supper,  the  business  world  of  Harrisburg, 
with  a  quid  of  tobacco  in  its  cheek,  a  slim 
pine  stick  in  one  hand,  a  pocket  knife  in 
the  other,  settled  down  to  discuss  the 
shortcomings  and  long  comings  of  Uncle 
Sam. 

Dan  Morgan,  the  blacksmith,  was  the 
autocrat  of  the  gathering. 

Just  how  he  came  to  be  it  is  hard  to 
say,  but  something  in  him  held  sway  and 
it  was  a  maxim  in  Harrisburg  that  **what 
Dan  Morgan  says  goes,"  and  as  I  have 
indicated  he  generally  *'said"  for  an  hour 
at  sundown,  the  crowd  about  listening, 
chewing  vigorously,  spitting  when  some 
special  point  was  made,  a  nod,  grunt, 
chuckle,  being  their  part  of  the  conver- 
sation. 

Dan  Morgan's  father,  a  full  blood  Irish- 
man,   and    his    mother,    a    Scotch    woman 


14  DRY  STORIES 


who  boasted  a  tartan  and  a  clan,  had  be- 
queathed to  Dan  a  quick  wit,  a  kind  heart 
and  a  deep-seated  integrity. 

They  had  come  to  America  when  Dan 
was  three  years  old,  about  thirty  years 
before,  so  that  Dan's  roll  of  his  R's  now 
and  then,  and  some  quaint  words  sprink- 
led through  his  speech  to  season  it  a  lit- 
tle, told  of  the  blood  in  his  veins,  down 
here  in  Tennessee  valley,  where  he  had 
come  a  few  years  before,  bringing  Millie, 
his  bride — he  married  an  East  Tennessee 
mountain  girl — his  sister  Margaret,  a 
spinster — had  built  him  a  little  home  on 
time  payments,  set  up  a  blacksmith  shop, 
and  by  a  sort  of  psychological  supremacy, 
had  come  to  be  the  leader  .and  expounder 
of  Harrisburg's  philosophy  of  life. 

Gradually  it  leaked  out  in  Harrisburg 
that  Miss  Margaret  was  sixteen  years  older 
than  Dan;  that  for  some  reason  or  other 
she  did  not  come  to  America  when  Dan 
and  her  parents  did,  but  spent  about  a 
year  in  Dundee  and  Killarney,  coming 
over  later,  living  with  them  in  a  little 
Hampshire  village  till  they  died.  Then 
Dan  came  west,  as  he  called  it.  Miss  Mar- 
garet following  v/hen  he  married  Millie. 

Harrisburg  women  said  they  didn't 
know — they  didn't  like  to  start  anything 
— they  never  wanted  to  bother  in  other 
folks  business — but  they  somehow  be- 
lieved that  Miss  Margaret  had  been  dis- 
appointed in  love. 

**Mrs.  Minerva  Brown  was  over  there 
one  day,  and  Miss  Margaret  went  into  her 
trunk,  and  Mrs.  Minerva  could  almost 
swear  she  saw  a  pair  of  white  shoes — any- 
how it  Was  something  done  up  in  tissue 
paper  and  they  were  lying  on  top  of  some- 
thing that  looked  like  a  pile  of  white  veil. 
Apt  as  anyway  she  was  engaged  to  a  man. 


DRY  STORIB^S  1fi 


and  apt  as  anyway  he  slipped  onto  a  ship 
and  run  off,  and  she  followed  him,  and 
apt  as  anyway  when  she  got  over  here  she 
found  he  had  married  somebody  else." 

Harrisburg  should  not  have  hinted  that 
Miss  Margaret  had  been  disappointed  in 
love.  She  may  have  been  disappointed  in 
a  lover,  which  is  a  very  different  sort  of 
thing. 

On  this  particular  day  of  which  I  am 
thinking,  Dan's  crowd,  as  they  called 
themselves,  were  chewing  more  vigorous- 
ly and  spitting  oftener  than  usual,  for 
Dan  in  his  slow,  ponderous  fashion,  was 
dealing  sledge-hammer  blows  at  the  Ten- 
nessee legislature  which  had  passed  a 
law  requiring  the  saloons  to  close  at  9:30 
at  night. 

**It's  only  another  way  of  saying  when 
men  shall  drink  and  where,'*  Dan  de- 
clared— '*this  9:30  law,  and  how  much,  I 
guess.  It's  getting  less  and  less  a  free 
country — drawing  the  reins  tighter  every 
day — and  it  is  drawing  the  reins  too 
tight  that  makes  a  horse  with  any  spirit 
in  him  try  to  kick  out  of  harness,  I 
reckon." 

Amos  Harper,  the  truck  grower,  spat 
on  the  ground  at  that  and  Ike  Rainey,  a 
corner  grocer,  took  from  the  pine  stick  a 
long  swath  with  his  knife.  Dan  Morgan 
knew  what  he  was  talking  about. 

**And  after  all,"  Dan  went  on,  **  a  man 
that  wants  to  make  a  pig  of  himself — why 
you  can't  law  him  out  of  it,  can  you?  A 
decent  gentleman  gets  his  decency  from 
inside  of  him;  the  law  can't  give  it  to  him. 
Why  not  let  the  saloons  stay  open  as  long 
as  they  want  to,  like  the  dry-goods  stores 
and  groceries,  if  they  carry  a  license  like 
them?  And  then  let  men  have  common 
sense   and   decency   enough   to   patronize 


16  DRY  STORIES 

them  like  men,  who  want  a  little  company, 
not  like  pigs,  that  wallow  in  a  trough/' 

**It*s  them  wimmen's  doin's,'*  Amos  ven- 
tured to  suggest.  Dan  nodded.  **Spec  so, 
and  I  tell  my  woman,  Millie,  if  she  stays 
at  home  and  trains  our  boy  right,  she's 
doing  the  biggest  temperance  work  on 
earth.  Train  him  up  to  be  a  master  of 
himself,  too  strong  to  let  stuff  in  a  bottle 
be  master  of  him.  Train  him  so  he  can 
drop  in,  take  a  drink  with  a  friend,  like 
a  man  and  stop  before  he  gets  to  be  a  fool. 
If  the  women  trained  up  the  boys  that 
way,  they'd  be  getting  at  the  root  of  the 
matter  a  hundred  times  more  than  all  this 
temperance  reform." 

Jim  Duncan,  Harrisburg's  one  old  bach- 
elor, snickered.  **It  looks  that  way  to 
me.  Seems  like  wimmin  are  takin'  too 
much  dish." 

Everybody  laughed.  Jim  passed  for  a 
woman-hater. 

**You  all  know  me,"  Dan  went  on,  lift- 
ing his  massive  head  a  little.  **I  try  to 
live  decent  and  honest.  I'd  lay  down  my 
life  for  my  woman  and  our  boy.  I  don't 
make  no  debts.  I  go  to  church  every  Sun- 
day that  comes,  God  knows  I  try  to  be  a 
man  and  I  don't  want  some  gimlet-headed 
lawmaker  telling  me  I  can  drop  in  Satur- 
day night  at  Jim's  place  up  there,  have  a 
dram  with  a  bunch  of  the  boys,  a  game  of 
dominoes,  but  I  must  be  sure  to  go  home 
at  half  past  nine.  Rot!  As  if  I  was  a  baby 
and  had  to  be  sent  to  bed  when  time 
comes!  Strikes  me  that  Tennessee  in  the 
United  States  of  America,  has  some  of  old 
England's  blood  in  her  yet.  What  did  we 
fight  for,  if  not  for  liberty?"  And  the 
men  nodded  and  laughed — Dan  Morgan 
knew  a  thing  or  two. 

Just  then  Dan's  little  boy,  three  years 


DRY  STORIES  17 


old,  came  running  up,  **Mudder  say  turn 
home  to  supper;  you  have  to  eat  wite 
now,''  and  Dan,  with  a  great  laugh,  swung 
the  boy  to  his  shoulder,  saying,  **A11  right, 
sir;  you  are  the  boss/' 

The  men  began  to  scatter.  **Great  coun- 
try this  is,  boys,"  Dan  said  to  them. 
**Home  and  state  stand  in  together,  I 
reckon.  State  tells  us  when  we  shall 
drink  and  the  women  tell  us  when  we 
shall  eat.  How's  that  for  a  free  coun- 
try?" and  the  rest  of  his  words  were  lost 
in  the  whirl  of  a  loud  guffaw. 

**Supper  was  getting  cold,  Dan,"  Millie 
said  at  the  door.  He  gave  her  a  whirl  as  if 
she  were  a  feather  and  seated  her  breath- 
less and  smiling  in  the  big  arm  chair. 
**You  women  are  getting  more  and  more 
unruly." 

**Getting  more  ruly,  you  mean,  Dan," 
his  sister  Margaret  put  in.  **Ain't  you 
Irish  enough  to  want  Home  Rule?" 

**You  bet  you,  but  they  tell  me  a  lot  of 
women  have  been  tampering  with  the  fool 
legislature." 

Millie  put  her  hand  over  her  mouth. 
"Eat  your  supper  first,  you  monster,"  she 
said,  **then  talk  about  the  legislature.  I 
don't  want  to  be  till  1:20  getting  the 
dishes  washed." 

**A11  right,  may  I  have  a  piece  of  ham?" 

**I  passed  the  shop  an  hour  ago,"  Mar- 
garet said,  when  supper  was  done,  **and 
heard  ye  trouncin'  the  legislature,  Dan. 
What's  the  legislature  done?" 

''Closed  the  saloons  at  9:30.  Says  we 
must  stop  our  jokes  and  drams  and  domi- 
noes and  get  in  bed  by  ten  o'clock  like 
good  boys.  Wooden  heads!  Why  can't 
they  let  the  saloons  stay  open  as  long  as 
they  want  to,  like  the  dry  goods  stores? 
What's  the  difference? 


18  DRY  STORIES 

*'I  get  disgusted  at  these  lawmakers, 
always  a-meddling  in  the  other  fellow's 
business.  This  9:30  law  is  only  another 
way  of  saying  how  much  a  fellow  shall 
drink  or  how  little.  Where's  the  right  in 
that?  Might  as  well  tell  me  how  much 
turnips  and  hog  jowl  I  shall  eat  for  dinner. 
What's  the  difference?" 

"The  difference  is,"  his  sister  an- 
swered, ''that  no  matter  how  much  tur- 
nips and  hog  jowl  a  man  eats,  it  don't  take 
away  his  wits,  but  after  two  or  three 
drams,  as  you  call  it,  he  becomes — how 
d'ye  put  it? — an  irresponsible  creature, 
therefore  a  ward  of  the  state.  And  it 
takes  jest  about  9:30,  I'm  thinking,  for 
ye  men  to  begin  losing  yer  wits,  then  the 
state  takes  hold  of  ye,  like  the  other 
lunatics,  and  turns  ye  in." 

**Don't  be  a  fool,  Margaret,"  Dan  re- 
torted. 

''Can't  help  it — runs  in  the  family," 
Margaret  laughed  heartily,  in  which  Mil- 
lie joined  and  the  baby  crowed  and 
chuckled  for  company. 

"Legislature  ain't  said  yet  how  many 
drinks  we  can  take  before  9:30,"  Dan 
answered  mockingly. 

"No,  nor  after,"  his  sister  replied.  "Now, 
Dan  Morgan,  we've  been  sittin'  here  lis- 
tenin'  to  ye  spout  a  lot  of  stuff  that  ye 
know  yerself  ain't  got  a  thing  in  the 
world  to  do  with  that  new  law.  There 
ain't  a  word  in  that  law  about  how  much 
a  man  shall  drink  and  you  know  it.  When 
the  saloon  closes  at  9:30  at  night,  he  can 
take  home  a  ten  gallon  jug  on  his  shoul- 
der and  swill  it  all  night  if  he  wants  to. 
That's  a  matter  'twixt  him  and — " 

"His  wife,"  Millie  put  it.  "Anyhow 
the  law  ain't  got  a  word  to  say  about  a 
man's  right  to  drink  all  he  wants." 


DRY  STORIES  19 

**Same  thing/'  Dan  protested. 

'*What  fun  is  there  taking  the  jug 
home?  It's  the  jolly  crowd  we  want — a 
dram  now  and  then  with  the  boys,  over 
the  jokes  and  the  game.  Who  wants  to 
bring  home  his  drams?" 

*'0r  his  jokes,  either,*'  Margaret  sug- 
gested. **If  ye  were  to  bring  them  home 
yer  hands  would  be  smutty  v/hen  ye  got 
here,  Dan  Morgan." 

*'Well,"  he  yawned,  '*I  guess  it's  time  to 
go  to  bed,  except  a  Salvation  Army  lass, 
and  I'm  going  to  see  that  the  legislature 
makes  them  stop  handing  'round  their 
tracts  after  9:30  at  night.  All  I  want  to 
say,"  he  added  more  seriously,  **is  that  no 
outside  restrictions  on  earth  can  make  a 
man  be  a  man;  they  must  be  inside." 

^'That's  right,  Dan,"  his  sister  an- 
swered, *'the  man's  inside,  and  he  should 
never  take  inside  anything  to  kill  the 
man.  Good  night,"  and  she  paused  a  mo- 
ment to  lay  her  toil-worn  hands  on  his 
shoulder.     Dan  covered  it  with  his  palm. 

"Ye  are  a  good  girl,  Margaret."  And 
then  his  sister  left  the  room.  He  turned 
to  his  wife,  Millie,  and  added,  **but  a  lit- 
tle sharp  with  her  tongue." 

**She's  very  wise,  Dan." 

**Yes,  but  don't  you  ever  fear,  Millie, 
no  matter  how  much  nonsense  we  may 
talk,  that  whisky'll  be  unmanning  me." 

**I  know,"  Millie  answered,  '*had  you 
thought,  Dan,  that  we  were  married  four 
years  tonight?  I've  always  meant  to  keep 
a  little  book  of  our  married  life,  writing  a 
sort  of  summary  of  every  five  years.  **I'll 
keep  it  twenty  years,  just  to  show  how 
things  go  with  us.  Won't  that  be  beau- 
tiful to  read,  dear?" 

Dan  drew  her  head  down  to  his  broad 
shoulder.   Only  the  firelight  flickered  over 


20  DRY  STORIES 

her  tender  face  and  the  long  hair  loosened, 
rippling  in  yellow  gold  fell  to  her  knees. 

**That  it  will,  Millie  mavourneen/*  he 
said  gently,  as  he  loved  to  call  her  some- 
times, '*One  year  more  before  we  have 
the  summary,  eh?** 

'*Yes,  four  years  just  gone.  We  have 
the  blessed  boy,  the  home  half  paid  for,  a 
good  business  at  the  shop,  our  dear  Mar- 
garet." "And  our  love  and  trust,"  Dan 
added  softly.  **Please  God  that  will  always 
stay.  And  when  I  talk  about  these  foolish 
laws,  Millie,  don't  ever  think  I*m  wanting 
more  drams  than's  coming  to  a  decent 
man.  I'd  like  to  see  the  stuff  that  could 
master  me  and  make  me  forget  you  and 
laddie  over  there,  see?"  and  he  rolled  up 
his  sleeves,  drawing  his  muscles  until  they 
stood  out  like  whipcords. 

Millie  lay  her  slim  fingers  on  the  knot- 
ted tendons.  "Could  anything  master 
you?  I'm  not  afraid  of  that,"  she  said 
softly,  as  he  kissed  her. 

The  next  night  was  Saturday  night,  the 
regular  night  for  Dan's  crowd  to  meet  at 
Jim's  place.  There  was  always  the  smoke, 
the  string  of  yarns,  the  round  of  drinks, 
the  game  of  dominoes,  which  lasted  till 
midnight,  generally.  Be  it  said  to  the 
credit^  of  Dan  Morgan,  who  ruled  the 
ranchT  that  the  crowd  was  generally 
what's  called  orderly;  that  is,  nobody's 
head  was  broken,  and  Jim's  windows, 
chairs  and  tables  were  treated  with  equal 
respect. 

Tonight  was  all  important,  for  then 
would  be  the  discussion  of  the  new  law, 
and  when  the  hour  came  for  meeting, 
every  man  was  at  his  post,  the  post  being 
most  necessary  for  some  after  they  left 
Jim's  place. 

"A  decent  game  of  dominoes  is  done  for 


DRY  STORIES  2t 

now  boys.  Who  can  make  250  by  9:30 
o'clock/'  Amos  Harper  said,  by  way  of  in- 
troducing the  subject. 

**Aw,  whose  gointer  quit  then?"  Lee 
Balls  put  in.  **Guess  Jim  ain't  gointer 
stand  for  that,  air  ye,  Jim?"  he  said,  with 
a  wink  and  a  nod  at  Jim  Simpson,  the 
owner  and  proprietor  of  Jim's  place. 

**Pretty  hard  on  me,"  was  the  answer. 
''Saturday  night,  anyway.  Half  of  the 
rest  of  the  week  I  don't  make  anything, 
but  you  fellows  droppin'  in  here  Saturday 
after  yer  git  yer  week's  pay,  kinder  set- 
tin'  around,  stayin'  late,  keeps  things  sor- 
ter goin'." 

Dan  Morgan  was  silent,  but  everybocLj 
looked  at  Dan  to  see  what  he  would  say. 
After  a  little  Jim  Rainey  stepped  across 
to  the  saloon  keeper  and  in  a  loud  whis- 
per, said:  '*A1  Hinson's  all  right.  Al's  got 
sense  enough  to  know  there  ain't  no  sense 
in  that  law.  He  knows  when  to  see  things 
and  when  not  to."  (Al  Hinson  was  con- 
stable).    **Ain't  that  right,  Jim?" 

Dan  shook  his  head.  **No!  When  I  live 
in  a  country,  I'll  come  under  its  laws,  Jim. 
This  is  a  fool  law,  but  when  I  can't  stand 
a  state's  laws  I'll  put  out.  If  Tennessee 
gets  to  sawin'  on  the  bits  too  much,  why 
there's  Arkansaw?" 

That  settled  Al  Hinson's  deafness  and 
blindness  so  far  as  Jim's  place  was  con- 
cerned. When  the  closing  law  took  ef- 
fect the  crowd  dispersed  at  9:30,  but  they 
went  oftener,  and  Margaret  and  Millie 
gradually  came  to  realize  that  instead  of 
Dan's  one  night  in  the  week  out,  there 
were  two  or  three  nights  and  as  the  weeks 
slipped  into  months,  the  little  cottage  was 
not  as  blithe  as  it  used  to  be.  Somehow 
Dan  was  getting  cross,  and  once  or  twice 
when  Laddie,  as  they  called  him,  would 


22  DRY  STORIES 

liave  climbed  on  his  knee  he  pushed  him 
away  half  angerly,  saying  he  was  tired,  to 
let  him  alone. 

Gradually,  almost  imperceptibly,  he  be- 
gan to  open  his  shop  a  little  later,  and 
once  or  twice,  a  horse  stamped  impatient- 
ly at  the  door.  Then  its  owner  rode  him 
away,  too  hurried  to  wait  for  Dan. 

Margaret  began  to  watch  his  face  keen- 
ly at  meal  time.  *'You  are  not  well,  Dan," 
she  said  to  him  one  evening.  "You  are 
not  like  yourself." 

"Well,  I*d  like  to  be  somebody  else  for 
awhile.  I*m  getting  sick  and  tired  of  this 
drive.     What's  the  use?" 

"Come,  that's  not  like  you,  Dan  Mor- 
gan, and  I'm  willing  to  say  its  your  liver 
that's  makin'  you  talk  like  that  and  what's 
the  matter  with  your  liver  is  ye  are  takin' 
too  much  at  Jim's  place,  and  if  ye'll  jest 
stick  to  it  long  enough  it'll  get  the  better 
of  ye,  body  and  soul." 

"There  ye  go  preachin'." 

"All  right,  call  it  preaching  if  ye  want 
to,  and  down  with  the  drink  is  my  text." 

"That's  what  the  boys  do,  Mag.  We 
down  with  the  drink,"  Dan  laughed. 
"What  does  a  woman  know  about  it? 
Can't  I  take  care  of  myself?  Millie,  there, 
ain't  afraid  I'll  turn  fool,  are  you  mavour- 
neen?" 

"I  haven't  been,"  Millie  answered  sim- 
ply, with  a  tinge  of  reproof  in  her  tone. 
Dan  stopped  and  lifted  Laddie  on  his 
knees.  "Dad  was  cross  a  bit  ago.  Laddie, 
just  tired,  that's  all.  Now  come  give  me  a 
great  big  hug.  Dan's  got  to  go  and  have 
a  round  with  the  boys." 

"That's  four  nights  out  this  week,"  Miss 
Margaret  said. 

"Well,  what  if  it's  eight  nights  this 
week?     Ain't  I  my  own  boss?" 


DRY  STORIES  23 


"Ye  won't  be  yer  own  boss  at  this  rate. 
Now  come,  Dan;  I've  seen  smarter,  strong- 
er men  than  you  go  down  in  slavery. 
There's  that  in  the  stuff  that  makes  a  man 
not  care  to  be  a  man,  and  when  he  doesn't 
care,  he  doesn't  try,  and  when  he  doesn't 
try  he  loses  hold  and  falls,  doesn't  he? 
You  know  my  own  story,  Dan,  my  lad  at 
Killarney,  the  best  and  bravest  man.  Ye 
know  more!  Ye  know  that  Ireland  is  a 
country  of  great  minds,  a  land  that  had 
its  Grattan,  O'Connell,  Parnell,  Moore,  yet 
ye  know  that  Ireland  has  never  taken 
first  rank  in  the  world.  She  has  always 
been  a  sort  of  laughing  stock  among  the 
nations.  Ye  know  that  our  own  mother, 
because  she  was  Scotch,  thought  herself 
a  wee  bit  better  than  father,  who  was  a 
full  Irishman,  and  why?  Because  Ireland 
has  always  been  a  nation  of  drinkers. 
That's  the  very  thing  that  has  kept  down 
the  glory  of  the  country.  The  pride  that's 
in  ye,  an  the  self-respect,  goes  to  sleep 
after  the  first  dram  or  two;  and  how  can 
you  expect  it  to  do  its  work  when  you  take 
something  that  puts  that  pride  to  sleep, 
and  when  it  sleeps  too  long  it's  dead,  and 
only  the  grace  of  God  can  resurrect  the 
dead  to  fight  the  fight  you  have  to  fight 
before  ye  win." 

Dan  Morgan  did  not  play  dominoes  at 
Jim's  place  that  night.  But  there  were 
other  nights  that  he  did  go  and  more  than 
one  woman  in  Harrisburg  began  to  wish 
and  pray  that  Jim's  place  wasn't  there. 

It  wasn't  long  until  there  came  the 
time  for  Millie  to  write  in  the  little  book 
the  summary  of  the  first  five  years  of 
their  married  life,  and  the  last  sentences 
in  the  book  were  these:  '*My  Dan  doesn't 
go  to  church  with  me  any  more.  He  seems 
tired   on   Sunday   morning   and   wants   to 


24  DRY  STORIES 


stay  at  home.  We  miss  him,  Margaret, 
Laddie  and  I,  and  the  sermons  and  songs 
are  not  so  sweet  as  when  he  sat  by  my 
side/' 

And  the  women  whispered  to  each  other 
softly,  **It's  all  from  going  to  Jim's  place, 
and  would  to  God  it  wasn't  there." 

I  wonder  how  many  women  in  the  yorld 
have  whispered  words  like  these? 

About  eight  years  of  their  married  life 
had  gone  by  when  one  night,  midnight 
came,  but  no  Dan.  Through  the  cottage 
window,  Millie  gazed,  straining  eye  and 
ear,  for  the  first  sight  or  sound  of  him. 
The  forge  next  door  was  deserted,  dark. 
The  little  town  was  silent  as  the  grave. 
Still  she  stared  into  the  darkness,  listen- 
ing for  his  first  footfall.  Oh  the  agony 
of  such  waiting!  For  the  anxious  eye 
to  fancy  a  shape  in  the  gloom  coming 
hitherward,  only  to  see  the  dim  outlines 
melt  into  nothingness.  To  strain  the  ear 
to  catch  that  faint  far  footfall  which 
comes  no  nearer,  and  proves  to  be  but  the 
crackling  of  a  twig,  the  fall  of  an  acorn. 
To  guess,  to  fear,  to  wonder  why  the  long 
delay.  To  lie  down  for  forced  slumber, 
to  rise  again,  to  long  and  look  and  listen. 
God  help  all  women  who  have  kept  such 
vigils  as  this! 

It  was  almost  dawn  when  he  came  in 
haggard  and  silent.  Millie,  who,  some- 
how, did  not  want  him  to  find  her  watch- 
ing, had  crept  back  to  bed  at  the  click  of 
the  gate-latch  and  roused  up  at  his  en- 
trance to  ask  where  he  had  been. 

**At  work,"  he  said  sullenly.  **Didn't  you 
hear  me  in  my  shop?  Didn't  you  look 
over  there  and  see  the  light?  You've  been 
asleep." 

The  woman  cowered  in  a  heap;  she  was 
cold,  alone,  absolutely.     The  iron  had  en- 


DRY  STORIES  25 

tered  her  soul  and  she  could  not  find  God's 
hand  just  then,  though  she  groped  for  it 
as  a  child  does  in  the  dark. 

Dan  had  told  her  a  lie.  The  Dan  she 
loved  and  trusted  with  her  whole  heart 
had  left  her.  She  was  alone  and  fright- 
ened. She  had  clung  so  to  the  great, 
strong  man.  In  the  dim  light  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  as  if  to  catch  something  to 
stay  her  soul. 

The  old  ideal  had  shaken  her  off  and 
she  was  trying  so  hard  to  cling  to  it  still. 

Margaret  knew  at  the  breakfast  table 
what  Millie's  white,  drawn  face  meant 
and  when  Dan,  too  sick  to  work,  went  out 
and  sat  on  the  wood  bench,  gloomily  puff- 
ing his  pipe,  she  took  her  sister  in  her 
arms. 

'"Twas  not  th-e  staying  out,"  Millie 
whispered  with  the  drawn  breath  of  one 
who  had  been  struck  a  blow.  'Twas  the 
lie  he  told." 

**That  wasn't  our  Dan,"  Margaret  whis- 
pered soothingly,  '^that's  the  Dan  that 
Jim's  place  is  making  every  day." 

When  ten  years  had  gone  by  little  Mil- 
lie wrote  the  second  summary  which  end- 
ed thus:  **Things  haven't  gone  so  well 
with  us.  The  home  isn't  yet  paid  for,  and 
Dan's  work  is  falling  off.  My  Dan  has 
changed,  but  I  love  him  yet  with  all  my 
heart,  and  I  pray  God  the  old  time  trust 
will  come  back  to  me  some  day." 

And  now  as  we  begin  the  third  section 
of  Millie's  summary,  I  want  you  to  look 
upon  my  friend,  Dan  Morgan,  not  so  much 
as  a  weak  and  wicked  man,  as  a  man  over- 
taken by  the  disease  of  drunkenness. 

The  fact  that  a  man  becomes  liable  to 
this  disease  is  merely  an  accident  nine 
cases  out  of  ten.  He  happens  to  be  near 
when  whisky  is  sold  and  in  a  very  simple 


26  DRY  STORIES 


way  he  acquires  the  appetite  and  in  var- 
ious individuals,  various  mental  and  phy- 
sical faculties  become  diseased.  In  Dan 
Morgan's  case,  physicians  would  say  that 
the  higher  emotions  were  in  a  state  of 
atrophy.  The  emotions  of  religion,  of 
reverence,  of  affection,  of  pride,  ambition 
were  numbed  by  the  drug  and  he  had  no 
desire  to  conquer  the  habit  which  was 
ruining  his  life.  An  intermittent  desire  to 
do  so  was  made  inactive  by  a  weak  will, 
a  faculty  which  soon  becomes  paralyzed 
by  drink. 

The  personnel  of  Jim's  place  had  chang- 
ed some  in  the  last  ten  years.  A  few  of 
the  old  topers  had  died,  but  a  fresh  relay 
of  younger  men  took  their  places,  and  the 
business  thrived 

The  line  of  steady  drinkers  that  a  sa- 
loon must  have  to  keep  going  was  kept  in 
fairly  good  condition,  for  when  one  man 
tumbled  over  out  of  line  a  new  recruit 
took  his  place — some  boy  brought  up  in 
town.  Dan  Morgan  was  still  the  dictator 
of  the  crowd,  but  he  talked  less  than  for- 
merly, drank  more  and  was  one  patron 
that  Jim's  place  could  always  count  on. 
In  his  cottage  which  had  never  been  paid 
for,  his  boy,  now  almost  a  man,  was  big 
and  strong  like  his  father,  and  was  learn- 
ing a  trade. 

The  two  women  took  in  sewing  and 
carefully  hoarded  their  little  earnings,  for 
the  specific  object  of  paying  out  the  home. 
Time  and  again  they  would  take  down  the 
little  leather  bag  which  they  always  hung 
at  the  end  of  the  mantel  in  a  sort  of  hiding 
place,  and  count  over  its  contents.  Mar- 
garet often  figured  the  money  still  due  on 
the  place,  and  reckoned  again  and  again 
the  time  when  they  could  hope  to  dis- 
charge  the    debt.      Laddie,    as   they   still 


DRY  STORIES  27 


called  him,  was  able  to  add  a  little  to  the 
store  and  Dan  Morgan  did  seem  to  have 
a  transitory  shame  when  he  saw  the  three 
count  over  their  little  store,  look  at  the 
line  of  Margaret's  figures,  sigh  and  return 
the  bag  to  its  hiding  place. 

One  night  a  strange  thing  happened. 
Dan  did  not  come  home  to  supper.  The 
two  women  had  sewed  till  late.  Laddie 
was  asleep,  Margaret  and  Millie  had  just 
lain  down,  when  the  door  to  Margaret's 
room  was  pushed  softly  open  and  by  the 
flicker  of  firelight  on  the  hearth  she  could 
see  Dan  Morgan  stealthily  cross  the  floor 
and  feel  along  the  mantel  till  he  came  to 
the  place  where  the  little  leather  bag  hung. 
Margaret  sprang  from  the  bed  and  called 
to  Millie.  **Don't  do  that,  Dan,"  she 
pleaded,  as  he  took  the  bag  from  its  nail 
and  dropped  it  into  his  pocket.  Dan's 
great  arm  pushed  the  women  aside,  and 
lunging  out  of  the  room,  he  passed  into 
the  darkness  and  was  gone. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  an 
instant,  and  then  with  silent  accord  threw 
on  their  clothes  and  hand  in  hand  follow- 
ed him.  **I  heard  today  that  Jim  Simp- 
son was  trying  to  borrow  money  to  renew 
the  lease  on  the  building  where  he  has  his 
saloon,"  Margaret  said,  as  they  walked 
swiftly  on,  just  in  time  to  see  Dan  pass 
into  the  bright  light,  wedge  his  way 
through  the  chairs  and  hand  the  little  bag 
to  Jim  Simpson,  who  took  it  greedily, 
locked  it  in  a  drawer,  slapping  Dan  Mor- 
gan on  the  back  and  handing  him  a  glass 
of  foaming  beer. 

Next  day  Harrisburg  was  all  a-flutter 
that  Miss  Margaret  and  Millie  had  walked 
into  Jim  Simpson's  saloon  the  night  be- 
fore. They  had  spoken  to  Jim  and  he  had 
handed  them  a  little  bundle  after  a  mo- 


28  DRY  STORIES 


ment's  hesitation.  There  were  many  the- 
ories about  it.  **Maybe  'twas  some  sort  of 
message  from  that  man  that  fooled  her.*' 

*'Apt  as  any  he  was  there.'*  **Did  a  man 
fool  her?*'  a  newcomer  asked.  "Well, 
that's  what  we've  always  thought.  Miss 
Minerva  Brown  one  time  seen  something 
in  Miss  Margaret's  trunk  that  seemed  to 
be  a  white  veil  and  shoes  and  she  never 
was  married,  you  know."  **Why  don't 
somebody  ask  Dan?"  **They  did."  '*Who 
did?"  '*Amos  Harper."  **What  did  Dan 
say?"    **Knocked  him  down." 

Some  time  after  Millie  wrote  her  third 
summary  and  the  last  sentence  was  this: 
"Would  to  God  Jim's  place  was  gone.  It 
makes  men  lie  and  steal." 

"I've  a  little  more  hope  for  Dan  since  I 
heard  he  knocked  Amos  Harper  down," 
Margaret  said.  "I  thought  his  pride  had 
been  drowned  in  drink,  but  it  ain't  clean 
dead,  you  see.  Who  knows  but  he'll  take 
a  turn  for  the  better — while  there's  life 
there's  hope,"  as  the  doctors  say. 

"If  we  could  get  some  new  medicine," 
Millie  said,  falling  into  the  thought. 

Soon  after  that,  by  some  influence,  Har- 
risburg  didn't  know  what,  a  preacher  from 
the  East  Tennessee  mountains,  an  old 
man,  with  a  message  that  gripped  the 
hearts  of  men,  came  down  to  Harrisburg 
to  preach  for  a  while.  The  people  he 
wanted  to  talk  to  didn't  come  to  hear  him, 
so  he  was  asked  to  talk  at  the  place  most 
natural  to  choose,  Dan  Morgan's  black- 
smith shop.  Dan  stood  in  the  door  and 
listened,  and  the  old  preacher's  text  was 
"Son,  Remember,"  from  the  parable  of 
Dives  and  Lazarus.  As  he  preached,  Dan 
Morgan's  thoughts  went  back  to  a  little 
Hampshire  town.  He  heard  the  bird's 
call  from  the  thicket  edging  the  meadow 


DRY  STORIES  29 


pond  and  caught  a  whiff  of  the  wild  honey- 
suckle in  the  woods.  He  saw  his  mother's 
face.  He  saw  Millie  for  the  first  time,  her 
yellow  hair  sweeping  the  ground  as  she 
stooped  to  fill  a  pitcher  by  the  mountain 
spring,  and  as  he  asked  her  for  a  drink, 
he  heard  her  low,  sweet  laugh,  like  a 
mountain  waterfall. 

Dan  Morgan  waked,  shook  himself,  and 
looked  about  him.  Millie  stood  near  him 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  been 
away  for  a  long  time.  He  looked  at  the 
boy  as  if  he  had  never  seen  him  before. 
He  had  been  numbed  or  drugged,  or  some- 
thing. When  the  preacher  ended,  and 
asked  for  any  man  who  wanted  to  *'talk 
over  business  with  him,"  as  he  put  it,  **to 
let  him  know  where  to  meet  him."  Dan 
Morgan  beckoned  him  to  come  to  the 
blacksmith  shop. 

Margaret*s  keen  eyes  saw,  and  as  she 
and  Millie  turned  away  quickly  toward 
home,  she  said  **thank  God,  he's  gointer 
take  Dan's  temperature.  Let  us  pray, 
Millie,  that  he'll  diagnose  his  case  all 
right." 

**I've  just  waked  up,  parson,"  Dan  said. 
**It  seems  to  me  I've  been  stupefied  or 
paralyzed,  in  my  mind,  I  mean,  and  I 
don't  mind  saying  I've  kinder  lost  my  grip 
on  things,  on  God,  maybe.  If  you'll  sorter 
help  me  to  take  hold  again  I — I — do  be- 
lieve I  can  make  it  through  all  right." 

*'Why,  yes;  I  guess  so,  Dan  Morgan," 
the  old  preacher  answered,  without  any 
visible  emotion  or  flow  of  sentiment,  "lots 
of  men  lose  hold.  I  have  often  in  my  time. 
Different  things  cause  it,  you  know. 
Sometimes  it's  money,  sometimes  it's  fast 
horses,  sometimes  it's  one  thing  and  an- 
other. Sometimes  it's  strong  drink.  What's 
been  your  trouble?" 


30  DRY  STORIES 

'*Well,  drink,  I  reckon,"  Dan  said,  con- 
fusedly. **The  stuff  can't  master  me,  if 
I  don't  want  it  to;  but  somehow  all  these 
years,  I  didn't  care  if  it  did — until  today." 

''Queer,  ain't  it,  that  the  way  whisky 
ruins  a  man  is  by  making  him  not  care  if 
it  does.  Well,  I'll  be  here  two  weeks,  or 
more,  Dan,  and  we'll  try  to  help  each 
other  out.  I've  got  to  be  up  on  Chestnut 
Ridge  to  see  a  poor  fellow  up  there  that 
imagines  God  has  forgotten  him.  I'll  drop 
around  in  the  shop  tomorrow,  and  say, 
Dan,"  he  called,  as  he  started  off,  ''I'll 
just  leave  you  to  do  your  own  praying  this 
evening  while  you  are  at  work  in  the  shop. 
I've  got  so  many  folks  to  look  after,  and 
you  understand  your  case  yourself  pretty 
well." 

Dan  smiled  broadly  at  the  parson's  busi- 
ness-like way  of  putting  things. 

"I  can  leave  the  praying  to  you,  then, 
can  I?" 

"O  yes,  I  guess  so,  parson,  if  I  ain't 
forgot  how." 

"It's  mighty  simple,  but  a  mighty  cur- 
ing thing,  praying  is,  Dan.  Just  telling 
God  you  are  feeling  lonesome  and  far-off, 
because  you  have  been  soul-sick  and  ask 
him  to  take  hold  of  you  and  look  after 
you  while  you  try  to  do  your  best.  Good- 
bye, I'll  see  you  tomorrow." 

Dan  and  the  parson  agreed  to  be  confi- 
dential friends  and  when  the  time  came 
he  talked  to  Dan  a  little  about  Jim's  Place 
and  wondered  if  they  could  get  some  one 
to  come  down  to  Harrisburg  and  speak  to 
the  people  about  voting  out  such  places. 
The  question  would  be  submitted  soon. 

"I  don't  think  they'd  listen  to  anybody 
comin'  in,"  Dan  said.     "Some  of  us  around 


DRY  STORIES  31 


here  might  talk  against  it  on  the  quiet, 
kinder  like.** 

The  preacher  had  not  quite  carried  his 
point.  **Well,  it  will  be  a  quicker  way  for 
me  to  round  up  the  fellows  some  day  and 
you  and  I  sorter  together,  hand  'em  a 
package.     What  d'ye  say?" 

**0h,  all  right." 

**Well,  I'll  read  a  chapter  and  lead  a 
song  and  you  do  the  preachin'.  How's 
that?"  Dan  laughed  a  big  old-fashioned 
laugh. 

**Me  preach?  Harrisburg'll  think  that 
judgment  day  has  come.  Well,  I'll  go  at 
it  if  you'll  let  me  take  my  own  text." 

''What  will  be  your  text!" 

"Jim's  Place?" 

And  this  is  the  sermon  that  my  friend, 
Dan  Morgan,  preached: 

**The  parson  has  just  told  you  that  he 
has  asked  me  to  preach  for  him  today  and 
take  Jim's  Place  for  my  text.  The  preach- 
ing part's  a  joke,  but  Jim's  Place  ain't, 
I'm  here  to  say,  and  I  reckon  I  know  if  any- 
body does.  I  ain't  gointer  talk  to  you  fel- 
lows about  how  much  you  ought  to  drink 
or  how  little.  'Cause  I've  quit  ain't  no 
reason  I'm  going  to  try  to  make  you  quit. 
How  much  a  man  drinks  or  how  little  is 
his  own  business,  I  take  it — his  and  the 
parson's  and  his  homefolks,  maybe.  It's 
no  business  of  mine.  I  ain't  yet  got  no 
right  to  even  calculate  with  you  how  much 
you  can  take  and  keep  your  wits;  for 
about  twelve  years  I  ain't  had  room  to 
talk,  room  in  my  stomach,  I  mean. 

**So  I'll  be  stickin'  to  my  text,  which  Is 
Jim's  Place. 

**That  is  some  of  my  business,  as  it  is  a 
public  institution  with  the  strong  arm  of 
the  law  back  of  it,  and  you  and  me  are 
supposed  to  help  make  the  laws.  Now,  next 


32  DRY  STORIES 

month  the  people  of  Bedford  county  and 
us  here  in  Harrisburg,  havin'  got  pretty 
well  acquainted  with  Jim*s  Place  and 
others  like  it,  we've  got  to  say — the  ques- 
tion has  come  up  some  how  or  other — 
whether  Jim's  Place  and  the  others  de- 
serve to  have  the  strong  arm  of  the  law. 
Instead  of  the  word  'arm,'  I'll  use  license, 
I  believe. 

**The  higher  courts  of  the  country  say — 
we  read  it  the  other  day — that  the  citizens 
of  any  state,  county  or  community  have 
a  right  to  prohibit  any  trade  or  business 
or  place  which  interferes  with  the  health, 
peace  or  morals  of  the  community — I 
learned  that  by  heart.  Now  the  first 
thing  fer  us  to  decide  is  whether  Jim's 
Place  interferes  with  the  health,  peace  or 
morals  of  his  community.  Then  you  fel- 
lows can  decide  fer  yourselves  whether 
you  want  it  to  or  not.  To  put  it  different, 
is  Jim's  Place  a  public  nuisance  and  do  we 
want  public  nuisances  in  Harrisburg? 
We've  got  a  right  to  decide  that.  That's 
our  personal  liberty.  You  know  we  got 
rid  of  that  hog  pen  in  the  north  part  of 
town  last  summer,  but  we  have  to  handle 
this  a  little  different,  fer  that  hog  pen 
didn't  have  no  federal,  state,  county  or 
community  fence  around  it;  Jim's  Place 
has.  Now  does  Jim's  Place  interfere  with 
the  health  of  the  town?  Every  fellow 
here  knows  inside  of  him  whether  it  does 
or  not. 

"Of  course  you  don't  have  to  drink  this 
stuff  if  you  don't  want  to,  but  you  want 
to.  Do  you  want  to  because  the  taste  is 
born  in  you  or  because  Jim's  Place  is  here? 
Tell  me  that!  They  tell  me  that  if  the 
place  wasn't  there  men  would  get  whisky 
some  way,  if  they  wanted  it  bad  enough. 
They  would.     They'd  slip  it  in,  steal  it  in, 


DRY  STORIES  33 

hunt  it  down  on  the  creek,  but  it  takes 
years  of  trainin*  in  a  convenient  saloon  to 
make  men  want  it  that  way.  A  tender- 
foot don't.  And  do  we  want  this  trainin' 
school  in  Harrisburg?  But  I'm  off  my 
text.  What  I  was  startin'  to  say  was  that 
Jim's  Place  does  interfere  with  the  health 
of  the  town. 

**Does  it  interfere  with  the  peace  of 
Harrisburg? 

**Ask  Widow  Brown  and  Widow  Batts; 
ask  Amos  Harper  where's  his  other  ear, 
ask  Jim  Batts  where's  his  other  eye. 

**That's  how  they  celebrated  Christmas 
eve  at  Jim's  Place. 

**Now,  about  ten  years  ago,  when  any 
row  started  up  there  I  alius  took  pains  to 
quiet  the  fellows  down,  but  I  got  so  I 
didn't  care  or  I  got  too  slow  motioned  to 
stop  it,  I  don't  know  which. 

**Does  Jim's  Place  interfere  with  our 
morals?  There  ain't  no  use  of  discussin' 
that.  I  might  get  arrested  for  usin'  in- 
decent language  in  public  if  I  started 
on  that  line. 

"So  we'll  come  back  to  our  text.  Is  Jim's 
Place  a  public  nuisance?  Somebody  says 
no,  'cause  it  brings  money  to  the  town. 
Well,  we  are  the  town.  Has  Jim's  Place 
brought  money  to  us?  I  don't  call  three 
or  four  men  in  the  town,  the  town,  do 
you?  This  town  has  1,100  people.  Take 
out  Jim  Simpson  and  his  folks,  that's  six, 
Tom  Taylor,  that  rents  the  building,  and 
his,  that's  eleven.  Dr.  Bradford,  that  has 
to  sew  some  of  you  up,  that's  twelve;  that 
old  Mexican  and  his  eight,  that  sell  Chi- 
huahua liniment  fer  bruises,  that's  twenty 
that  Jim's  Place  brings  money  to.  Do  you 
call  that  twenty  the  town,  or  the  other 
one  thousand  and  eighty? 

**I    know    somebody's    askin'    why    I'm 


34  DRY  STORIES 


pitchin'  into  Jim's  Place  when  I've  been 
keepin'  company  with  it  all  these  years — 
why?  Because  I  wanted  to;  I've  never 
wanted  to  before.  I  always  knew  it  was 
a  pest,  a  sore,  a  worm,  eatin'  out  the  heart 
of  Harrisburg,  but  I  didn't  care  if  it  did. 
How'd  I  come  to  care? 

**Well,  the  parson  come  along  and  give 
me  a  dose  of  what  he  calls  spiritual  med- 
icine, and  I  come  to  myself.  He  got  here 
just  in  time.  Makes  me  think  of  that  nig- 
ger we  like  to  hung  last  summer  fer  some- 
thing he  never  done.  We  caught  him 
hidin'  (half  the  niggers  in  the  country 
was  hidin'),  and  we  took  him  out  and  had 
him  under  a  tree  when  Al  Simpson  came 
lopin'  up  hollering  *Hold  on,  that  ain't  the 
right  man.'  When  he  got  loose  and  could 
speak,  you  all  remember  he  said:  'Lord, 
Marse  Al,  if  you'd  got  here  a  little  bit 
later,  I  wouldn't  keered  whether  you  come 
at  all  or  not.'  So  I  guess,  boys,  in  my 
case,  the  preacher  got  here  just  in  time. 
Ain't  that  the  way  of  it,  parson?"  Dan 
said,  looking  back  of  him  for  the  first  time. 

**Why,  Where's  the  parson?"  Dan  said, 
confusedly. 

**Lit  out  soon  as  you  begun  to  talk," 
a  man  on  the  outskirts  said.  **Told  me 
his  stayin'  here  seemed  kinder  like  a 
stranger  at  a  family  reunion.  Don't  you 
see  him  away  off  yonder  on  his  clay  bank 
strollin'  long  Chestnut  Ridge?" 

'*Go  on,  Dan,  we're  with  you,"  a  voice 
cried. 

Dan's  lip  quivered  for  the  first  time. 
Then  he  mastered  himself. 

''All  right,"  he  said  slowly,  "if  you  fel- 
lows stand  by  me  next  month  we'll  show 
old  Tennessee  we  know  what  a  public 
nuisance  is,  and  we  don't  want  one  in 
Harrisburg."    (Applause.) 


DRY  STORIES  35 


'*What  does  a  preacher  do  when  he 
quits?'*  Dan  asked  sheepishly. 

**They  sing  the  doxology/'  Pinley  said, 
proud  of  knowing  the  word. 

**Aw,  we  don't  know  no  doxology," 
Amos  Harper  put  in. 

**Well,  jest  sing  something  ye  all 
know/'  Dan  suggested.  **Don't  have  to  be 
no  church  song,  I  reckon." 

After  a  little  discussion  it  was  decided 
that  the  only  thing  everybody  there  knew 
was  the  chorus  of  ''Old  Black  Joe."  With 
this  they  made  the  welkin  ring. 

Dan  could  not  sing,  except  in  his  big, 
warm  heart.  When  they  had  done,  he 
added,  with  his  eyes  downcast: 

*'That  was  all  right!  I  guess  we  are 
movin'  on  boys,  and  I  reckon,  in  a  kind  of 
different  way,  them  angel  voices  are 
callin'  to  you  and  me." 

When  the  vote  was  taken  the  returns 
were  written  precinct  by  precinct,  on  the 
big  board  in  front  of  Dan's  blacksmith 
shop.  Dan  stood  watching  them,  his  face 
pale  and  tense  with  anxiety.  Millie,  a 
trembling  hand  on  his  shoulder,  stared 
wide-eyed  at  the  figures  as  they  were 
placed  in  line.  When  the  last  returns 
were  counted  it  was  nearly  dawn,  but  still 
they  stood,  until  they  heard  a  voice  call 
out  that  Bedford  county  was  dry  as  a 
bone.  At  the  words  Millie  swayed  a  little 
toward  the  strong  arm  that  caught  her 
and  held  her  close,  Dan's  massive  head 
drooped  to  her  shoulder,  and  he  did  what 
every  strong  man — thank  Heaven — does 
some  time — he  sobbed  like  a  little  child. 


A  Story  of  the  Cotton  Patch 


Margaret  Leighton  belonged  to  a  fam- 
ily whose  only  inheritance  was  a  coat  of 
arms,  and  a  family  tree.  People  did  say 
that  if  you  climbed  far  enough,  you  could 
find  a  man  hanging  on  a  limb  of  the  fam- 
ily tree.  But  Margaret's  father  never 
spoke  of  that.  He  always  boasted  of  their 
pedigree,  told  of  their  great  kinfolks  who 
owned  big  plantations  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  James  in  Virginia,  said  his  father 
had  a  hundred  slaves — his  sisters  never 
combed  their  hair  or  laced  their  shoes — 
Margaret  didn't  believe  their  children  did 
either — that  he  himself  always  had  a  nig- 
ger to  bring  up  his  horse,  **Spec,"  in  the 
morning,  would  ride  or  hunt  till  noon — 
would  bring  home  Tip  Gilbraith  or  Jack 
Marmaduke  to  dinner;  after  dinner,  a 
smoke,  a  snooze,  a  game  of  cards,  a  big 
carouse  in  the  big  dining  hall,  and  maybe 
after  supper  a  visit  to  the  nigger  quarters 
to  watch  the  niggers  dance. 

Margaret  often  listened  to  these  stories 
while  she  and  her  mother  patched,  darned, 
or  even  washed  out  the  clothes  and  hung 
them  up  to  dry.  By  hard  work  they  man- 
aged, with  the  help  of  wealthy  relatives, 
to  keep  the  pot  boiling  and  the  wolf  from 
the  door.  But  it  was  a  hard  pull  and 
sometimes  the  pot  only  simmered;  some- 
times they  could  see  the  gray  wolf's  teeth 
as  they  lay  awake  in  the  night. 

The    women    worked,    as    I    have    said. 


DRY  STORIES  37 


while  John  Leighton  sat  in  a  big  chair, 
talked  ancestry,  and  smoked  a  meer- 
schaum pipe  that  he  declared  used  to  be- 
long to  the  step  grand  nephew-in-law  of 
Thomas  Jefferson.  And  to  hear  that  man 
talk,  Jeffersonian  democracy  was  an  in- 
spiration. One  morning  when  he  was  un- 
usually eloquent  along  this  line  his  wife 
looked  up  and  asked  him  if  democracy 
didn't  mean  free  and  equal  rights  to  all 
and  special  privileges  to  none. 

He  knocked  the  ashes  from  the  meer- 
schaum and  shook  his  head  disapproving- 
ly. A  woman's  place,  he  said,  with  great 
condescension,  was  to  keep  the  home  and 
she  had  no  business  dabbling  in  politics. 
Mrs.  Leighton  was  tired  that  morning  so 
she  answered  the  aristocrat  by  saying  that 
she  thought  it  was  much  more  suitable 
for  a  woman  to  dabble  in  politics  than  in  a 
wash  tub.  Margaret  noticed  that  the  fea- 
ture of  those  glorious  old  days  most  fre- 
quently mentioned  by  her  father  was  the 
big  sideboard  on  which  he  said  always 
stood  bottles  of  wine,  and  Bourbon  whis- 
ky brought  from  Kentucky — Kentucky, 
where  the  **corn  is  full  of  kernels  and  the 
colonels  full  of  corn.*'  The  sideboard  was 
the  last  relic  to  which  they  clung  and 
when  at  last  one  day,  the  big  oak  side- 
board had  to  be  sold  the  father  managed 
to  keep — though  the  children  needed  food 
and  clothes — the  cut  glass  decanters  and 
wicker  covered  demijohns.  They  were 
full  one  day — he  was  next.  That  was  the 
only  way  he  had  of  showing  he  was 
brought  up  a  gentleman. 

Where  Margaret  went  to  school,  the 
teacher  one  day  gave  out  the  word  **gen- 
tleman"  for  the  class  to  define,  and  poor 
little  Margaret  wrote  this:  **A  gentleman 
is  a  man  who  does  nothing  but  talk  and 


38  DRY  STORIES 


get  drunk.'*  Years  went  by  and  the  glass 
decanters  had  to  be  sold — John  Leighton 
Avas  his  own  demijohn.  Periodical  sprees 
were  now  the  only  relic  he  had  left  where- 
by he  could  prove  to  the  world  he  was 
a  born  aristocrat.  How  Margaret  hated 
those  words,  ancestry  and  aristocracy! 
She  began  to  believe  that  when  people's 
-only  claim  to  respectability  is  that  they 
have  descended  from  great  ancestry,  the 
decent  has  been  as  emphatic  as  sliding 
down  hill,  and  the  word  aristocracy 
sounded  like  ipecac  to  her. 

During  her  father's  periodical  sprees, 
he  became  more  and  more  dangerous,  and 
one  day  when  he  came  home  with  his  brain 
on  fire,  and  the  baby  brother  was  sitting 
at  the  head  of  a  long  flight  of  stairs,  the 
drunken  aristocrat  pushed  the  child  with 
his  foot,  and  the  baby  fell  backward  over 
a  chair  placed  to  prevent  it  going  down 
the  stairs. 

As  the  slow,  sad  years  went  by,  a  wist- 
ful-eyed, queer  little  hunchback  boy  lived 
to  bear  daily  testimony  that  his  father  was 
brought  up  a  gentleman,  with  wine  on  the 
sideboard — and  the  rest. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  the  man 
whose  father  owned  plantations  could  use 
only  six-feet  of  earth — the  same  day  that 
comes  to  Vanderbilts  and  Astors.  They 
sold  the  old  home  for  a  song,  went  to 
Texas  to  live  with  a  relative,  to  work  and 
do  their  best. 

Then  the  mother  soon  passed  away,  and 
only  Margaret  and  the  little  hunchback 
were  left. 

When  Will  Mather,  an  awkward  coun- 
try boy,  after  fruitless  efforts  finally 
managed  to  tell  Margaret  he  loved  her, 
she,  with  the  proper  amount  of  hesitation, 
accepted  him  on  the  spot.    He  wasn't  very 


DRY  STORIES  39 

handsome,  or  very  scholarly,  but  he  could 
work,  and  he  made  no  pretentions  of  be- 
ing an  aristocrat.  Best  of  all,  he  owned  a 
little  farm,  where  they  could  grow  cotton 
for  their  livelihood.  So  they  were  mar- 
ried and  Margaret  set  herself  with  her 
whole  heart  to  make  a  home  for  the  man. 
Her  relatives  had  told  her  that  Will 
Mather  was  a  good  man — would  take  his 
toddy  now  and  then — but  that  gave  her 
no  concern.  She  had  never  been  asso- 
ciated with  a  man  who  did  not  drink  more 
or  less — she  considered  it  the  natural  con- 
dition of  men. 

He  put  in  his  crops  season  after  sea- 
son, and  things  went  fairly  well,  though 
the  cost  of  living  made  it  impossible  for 
them  to  lay  anything  aside,  and  as  the 
man  grew  older,  the  drinking  more  or 
less  changed  to  drinking  more.  Children 
came,  and  at  last  the  season  when  the 
women  and  children  decided  to  go  into  the 
cotton  patch,  and  pick  the  cotton  them- 
selves. 

They  worked  hard,  laughing  bravely 
over  their  cotton  sacks,  and  at  last  it  was 
all  picked,  ginned,  baled,  ready  for  to- 
morrow's market,  and  the  little  family  sat 
down  to  rest.  What  joyous  plans  for  to- 
morrow! The  oldest  son  was  too  grave 
and  dignified  for  such  rejoicing,  but  little 
Bill  and  Tom  whispered  on  their  pallet 
about  new  hats,  and  even  dared  to  men- 
tion a  new  knife  between  them,  little  Bill 
to  have  it  in  the  morning,  Tom  from  then 
until  night. 

Mary  pleaded  for  a  new  ribbon  for  her 
hair.  The  mother  smiled  and  patted  the 
baby  at  her  breast.  Maybe,  if  enough  were 
left  after  she  bought  the  baby's  shoes, 
Mary  was  to  have  a  new  dress  and  hat. 
Wouldn't  the  ribbon  from  the  old  hat  do — 


40  DRY  STORIES 


No?  Well,  they  should  see — Mary  had 
worked  hard  in  the  broiling  sun,  her  arms 
were  nearly  blistered — never  mind — 
they'd  see. 

At  last  they  were  told  by  the  mother  to 
go  to  sleep,  for  they  must  be  off  by  sunrise. 
And  the  man  and  wife  sat  alone  and 
talked  of  the  outlay  on  the  morrow.  When 
Will  Mather  looked  at  his  wife's  tired  face, 
he  leaned  over  suddenly  and  kissed  her. 
She  blushed  like  a  girl.  He  had  not  kissed 
her  in  a  long  time — not  since  the  baby  had 
scarlet  fever,  took  a  turn  for  the  better 
and  the  doctor  said  he  would  get  well. 
Standing  out  there  under  the  stars  the 
man  had  put  his  arm  about  his  wife  and 
told  her  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  her 
nursing  the  baby  would  not  have  come 
around,  and  he  said  he  was  going  to  be  a 
better  man.  So  tonight  she  went  to  rest 
the  happier  for  the  kiss,  but  lay  awake 
long  trying  to  plan  how  to  make  one  dol- 
lar do  the  work  of  two.  At  sunrise  they 
started,  the  man  on  the  big  cotton  wagon, 
the  family  following  in  a  spring  wagon, 
still  chattering  about  their  new  things 
they  would  buy. 

In  town  the  mother  and  children  went 
to  a  big  department  store  where  she  was 
to  buy  their  clothes.  Tom  was  to  try  on 
a  beautiful  new  suit,  and  so  on,  the  father 
was  to  go  and  sell  the  cotton  and  they 
would  have  their  usual  meeting  place — 
in  a  little  park  where  they  would  spread 
their  lunch — and  oh,  such  a  time  they 
would  have!  What  did  blistered  hands 
and  scorched  faces  matter  now? 

Carefully  Margaret  made  her  purchases 
— trying  to  please  the  little  ones,  and 
still  remember  that  sum  to  be  laid  by  for 
school.  Then  telling  the  salesman  to  have 
the  goods  wrapped,  she  added  that  they 


DRY  STORIES  41 

would  call  and  pay  for  them  on  their  re- 
turn home,  after  the  cotton  was  sold. 

Then  they  went  to  the  park  as  happy  as 
birds  and  scattered  over  the  grass.  One 
o'clock;  John  was  late.  Margaret  spoke 
cheerily — maybe  the  man  who  bought  the 
cotton  was  delayed.  Two  o'clock  came; 
into  the  daughter's  eyes  there  crept  a 
shadow  of  fear.  But  the  children  were 
hungry,  so  with  trembling  fingers  Mar- 
garet spread  the  lunch.  She  could  not 
eat.     Three  o'clock — four. 

Then  the  oldest  son  went  to  search.  A 
hand  of  ice  gripped  the  woman's  heart. 
It  was  nearly  dusk  when  he  came  back 
and  told  her  the  story,  bit  by  bit,  as  ten- 
derly as  he  could.  His  father  was  out 
there  in  the  wagon  ready  to  go  home.  He 
had  found  him  drunk.  Some  one  had  told 
him  how,  after  selling  his  cotton  the  man 
had  gone  into  a  near-by  saloon,  two  old 
boon  companions  following — a  treat,  an- 
other, a  frenzied  brain,  a  man  lending, 
giving  away  money — then  lurching  out, 
after  hours  to  find  his  team,  his  pockets 
gaping  wide,  and  there  he  was — all  his 
money  gone  but  a  few  paltry  dollars — 
lost,  given  away  or  stolen — no  matter. 
There  he  was,  ready  to  go  home. 

If  you  should  want  a  logical  argument 
against  the  saloon,  I  ask  you  to  look  at 
that  woman's  and  those  children's  faces 
as  they  drive  homeward  through  the  dusk. 
Is  this  tragedy  a  bit  of  fiction  written  by 
a  dreaming  poet?  Is  it  not  a  real  story — 
a  true  story?  Is  it  overdrawn?  Are  not 
the  details  scanty  compared  to  every  day 
life?  Is  it  a  rare  story?  Does  it  happen 
a  thousand  times  over  every  year?  What 
then?  Did  simply  whisky  cause  this 
tragedy?  Whisky  that  is  bought  from 
bootleggers,  as  they  call  it?     No;  whisky 


42  ^  DRY  STORIES 


as  presented  in  the  saloon — the  saloon 
with  all  its  surroundings,  peculiar  condi- 
tions, companionship,  so  called  sociability. 
The  open,  ready,  ever  present,  sociable 
saloon  then  is  the  cause,  every  year,  of  the 
ruin  of  thousands  of  Texas  homes.  What, 
then?  The  men  should  be  stronger,  they 
should  resist  the  temptation?  If  they 
were,  there  wouldn't  be  any  saloons, 
would  there?  He  was  a  weak  man  with 
an  opportunity  convenient  for  his  weak- 
ness. 

The  next  day  Margaret  set  her  lips, 
lifted  her  head  and  began  to  think  of  her 
pedigree.  Blood  will  count  in  emergencies 
like  this.  She  was  a  direct  descendant  of 
William  Henry  Harrison.  She  faced  the 
fact  that  the  man  she  had  taken  to  pro- 
tect her,  guide  her,  or  even  to  control  her, 
was  the  weaker  of  the  two,  and  it  was 
a  pitiful  realization.  They  weathered 
through  the  winter  some  way,  but  the  old- 
est son,  Tom,  fretted  sorely  because  he 
had  to  give  up  the  promised  schooling, 
and  he  was  always  lifting  his  face  from 
the  plow  handles  with  that  look  of  a 
caged  creature  trying  to  fly.  He  hadn't 
lived  through  the  town,  you  see,  to  learn 
to  love  the  farm.  It  takes  the  cries  of  the 
market-place,  the  tussel  of  the  highway 
to  make  the  waterfall  and  bird  songs 
meaningful.  You  needn't  expect  a  boy, 
born  on  a  farm,  to  want  to  stay  there, 
especially  when  the  smoke  of  a  city  is  in 
sight.  You  may  preach  all  day  long  about 
the  vices  and  temptations  of  the  town,  but 
he  is  going  to  find  out  for  himself.  Mar- 
garet knew  this  and  a  certain  thought 
made  her  shudder. 

She  knew  that  her  boy  might  have  from 
both  sides  of  the  family  an  inherited  ap- 
petite for  whisky.     She  knew  how  much 


DRY  STORIES  43 


more  powerful  an  inherited  tendency,  an 
ever  present  temptation  is  than  an  ac- 
quired habit.  This  woman  was  beginning 
to  have  convictions  along  this  line  and  to 
speak  them.  Hitherto  she  had  accepted 
the  saloon  as  a  necessary  part  of  civic  con- 
ditions. She  began  to  resent  its  existence 
as  unfair,  unjust.  She  began  to  realize 
that  the  people  who  say  the  saloon  must 
go  are  not  the  fanatics.  The  fanatics  talk 
the  other  way.  That  treacherous  institu- 
tion with  its  foaming  mouth  would  always 
be  calling  to  her  beloved — and  she  wanted 
it  taken  away. 

She  began  to  talk  to  her  husband  in  a 
new  way.  Margaret  hardly  knew  herself 
about  legislation  against  the  evil  and  all 
that.  The  man  told  her  that  there  was  no 
chance  to  stop  the  sale  of  it.  Should  they 
close  the  places,  it  would  be  sold  in  every 
fish  market,  in  every  grocery  store;  but 
he  would  always  add  humbly  that  he 
hoped  his  boy  would  be  a  stronger  man 
than  he  had  been,  and  be  able  to  pass  the 
temptation  by. 

A  simpler  thing  it  would  be  to  take  the 
temptation  away,  the  mother  made  an- 
swer, and  she  fell  to  wondering  if  a  rattle- 
snake were  coiled  on  the  square  and  had 
the  habit  of  staying  in  one  place,  would 
they  let  it  stay  merely  that  people  might 
learn  to  keep  out  of  its  reach?  Would 
they  have  a  great  pit  in  the  school  yard 
and  cover  the  mouth  with  flowers,  that 
would  lure  the  children  to  pick  them  to 
teach  them  to  be  strong  enough  to  stay 
away?  How  many  would  be  lost  in  learn- 
ing the  lesson? 

Margaret  was  glad  when  a  chance  came 
for  her  boy  to  enter  the  navy — the  Span- 
ish-American war  was  on — and  new  sights, 
new  sounds  might  help  to  take  his  mind 


44  DRY  STORIES 


away  from  the  dreaded  temptation.  When 
the  boy  left,  his  mother  made  no  pretense 
of  teaching  him  that  he  should  serve  his 
country,  for  to  tell  the  truth  she  was  losing 
faith  in  Uncle  Sam. 

The  cotton  patch  lost  one  of  its  best 
hands,  and  two  people  there  were,  who 
well  knew  that  glasses  of  whisky  held 
across  a  bar  were  sending  their  boy  on  a 
battleship  instead  of  into  college  walls. 
The  mother  mourned  for  her  boy,  the 
father  drank  more  heavily. 

One  night  Will  Mather  was  shot  and 
killed  instantly  in  a  drunken  brawl  in 
the  rear  of  a  saloon.  After  the  first  shock 
from  the  gushing  wound  and  blank  face, 
Margaret  knew  that  her  way  would  be 
easier.  She  could  work  now  and  at  least 
know  where  the  proceeds  of  her  work 
would  go.  Then  a  drouth  came  and  in 
spite  of  the  two  women,  two  small  chil- 
dren and  the  hunchback's  farm  labor,  the 
sky  was  as  brass,  the  crop  parched  in  use- 
lessness,  the  little  farm  was  mortgaged. 

About  this  time  a  young  woman,  an  ac- 
quaintance in  the  city,  who  came  out  for 
a  visit,  pitied  Mary  for  her  rough  work 
and  told  them  of  what  a  fine  position  she 
had — then  of  a  business  college  with  its 
lightning  methods  of  stenography  and  its 
guarantee  of  a  sixty-dollar  position  at  the 
start.  Wouldn't  Mary  rather  try  that? 
Sixty  dollars  a  month  sounded  like  a  for- 
tune to  Margaret,  who  heaved  a  quick, 
eager  sigh.  But  again  her  pedigree  protest 
sounded  in  her  soul.  It  was  rough  work, 
but  it  was  home  work,  and  that  was  best. 
Those  proud  old  Virginia  women,  white 
handed,  silk  robed  dames,  sheltered  from 
winds,  called  down  the  generations  and 
stood  between  little  Mary  of  the  cotton 
patch  and  the  outside  world. 


DRY  STORIES  45 


But  the  mortgage,  the  sick  child,  the 
drouth  and  Mary's  pleading — so  not  long 
after,  another  farm  hand  was  gone.  When 
Mary's  position  was  secured,  her  mother 
went  with  her  to  see  her  employer,  a  bril- 
liant lawyer,  whose  name  meant  wealth 
and  power.  In  a  halting,  tearful  fashion, 
Margaret  begged  the  man  to  take  care  of 
her  little  girl,  and  he  promised  her  that 
he  would.  The  mother,  stifling  the  sobs 
in  her  throat,  went  away,  leaving  her 
Mary,  clear-eyed,  white-browed,  clean- 
souled,  in  whose  hands?  In  the  guardian- 
ship of  a  man  whose  nature  had  been  cal- 
loused and  seared,  who  for  years  had  ren- 
dered a  class  of  legal  service  which  was 
mere  jugglery  in  court,  who  had  used  the 
law  to  defeat  justice,  who  had  covered 
facts  with  technicalities,  who  for  years 
had  defended  the  guilty  at  the  expense  of 
the  innocent,  who  hundreds  of  times  had 
played  on  the  emotions  of  an  ignorant 
jury  to  secure  the  verdict  that  he  wished. 
The  man's  conscience  was  dead — slain  by 
dollars.  Of  late  years  men  said  he  was 
losing  his  powers — he  drank,  they  said,  too 
much.  He  went  into  the  saloon  across  the 
street  a  dozen  times  a  day.  Others  said 
that  when  he  had  a  drink  or  two  he  could 
handle  the  jury  like  wax. 

As  Margaret  went  home  she  passed  a 
saloon  and  trembled.  She  never  had  be- 
fore. A  Salvation  Army  woman  handed 
her  a  temperance  pamphlet  and  she  read 
as  she  walked  along  slowly.  The  United 
States  in  1911  spent  five  times  as  much 
money  for  whiskey  as  for  boots  and  shoes; 
two  hundred  and  fifty  million  more  for 
whisky  than  for  meat;  five  and  a  fourth 
times  as  much  for  whisky  as  for  public 
education.  Margaret  read  these  figures 
with   a  new   interest,   but  more  than   all 


46  DRY  STORIES 

these  to  her  was  the  bare  fact  that  whisky 
had  placed  her  Mary,  her  lily,  by  that 
typewriter  upstairs. 

People  had  told  her  that  to  close  the 
saloons  would  deprive  the  state  of  its 
chief  revenue,  and  she  wondered  if  boots 
and  shoes  and  bread  and  meat  were  not 
better  revenue  than  dirty  dollars  gained 
by  ruining  homes.  What  does  revenue 
to  the  state  count  for,  if  it  doesn't  mean 
bread  and  meat  for  the  masses?  If  any 
traffic  takes  these  away,  is  it  revenue  or 
graft?  But  then  Margaret  was  just  an 
inexperienced  country  woman  and  did  not 
understand. 

As  time  went  on  little  Mary  found  her 
employer  more  and  more  familiar  in  his 
manner,  ruder,  especially  after  he  came 
from  the  saloon  across  the  street.  The 
girl — the  lineal  descendant  of  that  Vir- 
ginia dignity — thought  these  manners 
were  rather  the  manners  of  the  scullion 
toward  the  kitchen  maids  and  clung  to  the 
simple  ideals  she  had  learned  from  her 
mother  between  the  furrows  as  they  plant- 
ed or  hoed  their  crop.  But  the  man,  how 
he  laughed  at  what  he  called  her  prim- 
ness— jeered  now  and  then  at  folks  a  hun- 
dred years  behind  the  times,  joked  about 
old  fashioned  mothers,  whispered  some- 
thing of  love.  Oh,  love  beautiful,  how 
we  desecrate  thee — and  little  Mary  began 
to  lay  aside  her  old  ideals  as  she  laid  aside 
the  ribbon  on  her  hair,  or  the  bunch  of 
lilacs  she  used  to  bring  in  from  her  Sun- 
day's visit  home,  but  she  did  good  work 
and  listened  with  interest  to  the  many  dis- 
cussions on  the  liquor  traffic  in  the  law  of- 
fice. She  often  heard  her  employer  say 
that  it  was  not  the  use  but  the  abuse  of 
whisky  that  made  fanatics  fight  it  so,  that 


DRY  STORIES  47 


he  himself  could  drink  whisky  or  he  could 
let  it  alone. 

Mary  noticed  that  never  a  half  a  day 
passed  that  he  would  let  it  alone.  He  often 
added:  **I  drink  like  a  gentleman,  and  if 
the  other  fellow  wants  to  make  a  hog  of 
himself  it  is  none  of  my  affairs."  Mary 
pondered  on  that  expression,  **drinking 
like  a  gentleman."  She  knew  that  the 
man  was  never  so  coarse,  so  rude,  so  fa- 
miliar, as  when  he  had  been  for  a  few 
moments  to  the  saloon  across  the  street. 
She  wondered  if  that  were  drinking  like  a 
gentleman.  She  wondered,  too,  how  much 
or  how  little  whisky  it  takes  to  make  a 
man  less  a  gentleman.     ^^st£TQft 

Her  employer  often  said  thaf 
town  was  a  dead  town,  that  without  the 
saloons  the  farmers  would  go  somewhere 
else  to  sell  their  cotton  so  they  could  get 
whisky.  Mary  wondered  why,  because 
she  had  heard  them  say  that  with  the  sa- 
loons closed,  they  could  get  whisky  just 
as  easily  and  she  remembered  a  day  when 
her  father  came  to  town  to  sell  his  cot- 
ton, where  there  were  saloons  and  she 
knew  that  one  day  had  changed  the  whole 
history  of  her  home. 

Saloons  were  a  part  of  the  business  s-uc- 
cess  of  a  town — over  and  over  she  heard 
him  say,  *'Take  them  away  and  you  kill 
the  town." 

So  she  remembered  that,  and  sometime 
after  when  her  employer  asked  her  to 
make  a  list  of  the  attractions  of  the  little 
city  in  which  they  lived,  she  looked  up  all 
statistics  on  this  line  and  made  two  hun- 
dred lists.  She  must  have  them  ready, 
he  said,  for  a  crowd  of  boosters,  he  called 
them,  that  were  going  down  the  road  to 
boost  the  town,  to  tell  at  other  towns,  etc., 
the  wonderful  attractions  they  left.      So 


48  DRY  STORIES 


faithful  little  Mary  studied  hard  the  busi- 
ness directory  and  listed  the  leading  in- 
dustries, as  she  had  been  told.  Among 
other  things  she  found  the  town  had 
thirty-one  saloons  and  this  item  she  gave 
a  conspicuous  place  on  the  list,  knowing 
that  her  employer  would  want  this  indus- 
try, so  necessary  to  a  town's  well  being, 
emphasized.  The  '^boosters''  surged  into 
the  office  one  day  to  get  the  lists  and  Mary 
handed  them,  neat  and  plain,  to  her  em- 
ployer, who  distributed  them.  The  men 
glanced  at  them,  and  to  Mary's  surprise, 
every  man,  without  exception,  took  out 
his  pencil  and  drew  a  line  through  some 
item  on  the  list,  some  laughingly,  some 
sheepishly,  some  proudly,  her  employer 
with  a  mutter  and  a  scowl.  Mary  in  sur- 
prise asked  him  after  they  had  gone,  what 
mistakes  she  had  made.  The  man  said 
bluntly  a  mistake  was  made  from  lack  of 
common  sense,  and  little  Mary  asked  in- 
nocently if  the  item  **saloons''  was  a  lack 
of  common  sense. 

I  wish,  in  telling  this  story,  I  could  say 
that  innocence  is  the  protection  of  inno- 
cence and  that  weakness  is  its  own  shield 
and  buckler  in  the  hands  of  the  strong. 
But  I  am  trying  hard  not  to  be  a  dreamer, 
but  to  tell  real  things  and  I  must  tell  you 
that  gradually  Mary  lost  her  primness,  as 
the  man  called  it.  At  last,  one  day,  she 
did  not  come  to  her  work;  her  employer 
wondered  a  little,  then  when  the  days 
passed  and  she  did  not  come  back,  he 
passed  up  the  matter  lightly  and  decided 
that  the  girl  had  become  a  part  of  the 
drift-wood  in  the  muddy  current  of  the 
town. 

Out  on  the  little  farm  a  woman's  heart 
broke  and  Margaret  had  her  Gethsemane. 
When  she  came  in  to  see  the  lawyer  to  ask 


DRY  STORIES  49 


him  to  help  her  find  her  girl,  he  told  her 
as  was  true,  that  he  knew  nothing  of  her 
whereabouts  and  the  only  comfort  he 
gave  was  that  he  would  try  to  keep  a  look 
out  for  her.  After  the  mother  left,  the 
man  did  know  one  slight  pang  of  remorse. 
It  was  like  a  bird's  high  call  from  adown 
the  marshes.  He  was  mentally  uncom- 
fortable for  a  moment,  then  went  across 
to  the  saloon,  and  the  same  stuff  that  had 
made  him  less  than  a  man,  made  him  not 
care  what  he  had  done,  and  then — forget. 

In  the  cotton  patch  now  were  left  only 
the  woman  (the  two  little  boys  had  died) 
and  the  hunchback,  always  doing  what  he 
could.  The  mortgage  would  soon  fore- 
close, but  she  did  not  care.  They  planted, 
hoed,  gathered  in  season.  To  the  woman 
nothing  mattered  much. 

Then  out  of  the  long  grass  in  the  even- 
ing, out  of  the  twilight's  hush,  came  a 
voice  to  her,  the  voice  of  the  Comforter. 

Margaret  had  never  been  of  a  religious 
nature,  but  in  her  desert  of  desolation  she 
learned  to  know  that  God  was  near.  It 
takes  the  Deeps  and  the  Darks  of  life  for 
some  of  us  to  catch  the  radiance  of  the 
Infinite.  It  is  only  through  the  cries  of 
sorrow  that  some  of  us  can  catch  the 
music  of  the  still,  small  voice.  Yet,  thank 
God,  those  of  us  who  have  to  reach  the 
cross  with  blood-stained  feet  can  look 
backward  and  be  thankful  for  every  thorn 
that  pierced  the  way. 

One  day  Tom  came  home,  a  medal  on 
his  breast,  and  the  mortgage  did  not  mat- 
ter then.  And  still  the  woman  prayed  and 
waited.  Then  one  evening  at  nightfall 
a  swift  footed,  sad  eyed  young  woman — 
a  young  woman  who  had  simply  been 
strong  enough  to  tear  herself  away  from 
unhallowed    influences,    came    across   the 


50  DRY  STORIES 


new  plowed  field,  slipped  up  to  the  kitch- 
en door,  stealing  in  to  nestle  in  her  moth- 
er's arms.  Mary  had  come  back  to  the 
cotton  patch. 

Then  the  family  knelt  together  under 
the  stars,  and  prayed,  and  the  little  hunch- 
back bowing  his  maimed  body  close  to  the 
earth,  plead  softly,  **0h,  God,  make 
whisky  let  people  alone." 

This  is  the  prayer  that  the  women  of 
Texas  pray,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  the 
men  of  Texas  will  make  that  prayer  in 
vain.  On  the  21st  day  of  April,  1836,  the 
men  of  Texas  fought  for  the  women  of 
Texas  against  their  Mexican  enemies  and 
scattered  them  like  chaff.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  seventy-seven  years  later  the 
men  of  Texas  will  line  up  with  every  Mex- 
ican in  Texas  against  the  women  of  our 
state.  I  do  not  believe  you  will  cast  this 
shadow  on  the  glory  of  the  field  at  San 
Jacinto. 

You  have  not  forgotten  that  incident 
during  the  Spanish-American  war  which 
illustrated  the  military  rule,  that  an  of- 
ficial of  one  country  firing  upon  the  flag 
of  another  is  equal  to  a  declaration  of  war. 
You  remember  that  an  American  soldier 
was  condemned  to  be  shot  for  some  trivial 
offense.  The  American  consul  begged  a 
respite  until  he  could  secure  necessary 
papers  from  the  United  States,  but  was 
refused,  and  the  American  with  three 
Mexicans  was  marched  out  in  the  gray 
of  early  morning  to  die.  The  consul  asked 
permission  to  pay  a  last  tribute  to  his 
countryman;  this  being  granted,  he  drew 
from  under  his  long  cloak  the  flag  of  the 
United  States,  shook  out  its  folds  until  it 
flashed  in  the  sun's  first  ray,  stepped 
across  the  field,  wrapped  his  countryman 
in  his  flag  from  head  to  foot,  then  turn- 


DRY  STORIES 


51 


ing  to  the  Mexican  official,  said  calmly, 
*'Sh.oot,  if  you  dare!''  and  the  Mexican's 
arm  fell  nerveless  at  his  side.  Ah,  men  of 
Texas,  do  you  remember  that  ninety  per 
cent  of  the  saloons  of  Texas — the  enemies 
of  our  homes — are  kept  by  foreigners?  Do 
not  we  women  thus  face  a  foreign  foe? 
Then,  by  the  eternal  glory  of  chivalry,  I 
ask  you  to  protect  the  ballotless  women  of 
Texas  with  the  voice  of  our  government,  to 
wrap  them  from  head  to  foot  in  our  Stars 
and  Stripes,  thus  saying  to  our  foreign 
enemy,  ''Shoot,  if  you  dare." 


52  DRY  STORIES 


A  Tribute  to  Lee 


(By  Narnie  Harrison  Bell.) 

How  sweet  it  is,  how  sweet  it  is. 

That  through  all  stress  and  strife, 
As  we  grow  old,  our  hearts  may  hold 

The  poetry  of  life. 
Though  steps  are  slow  and  hearts  beat  low 

And  forms  with  age  are  bent. 
You  men  in  gray,  claim  still  today 

Your  wealth  of  sentiment. 

As  you  live  on,  you  still  love  on. 

Your  old  ideals  still  are  dear. 
The  morning  glories  may  be  gone. 

But  evening's  primrose  blossoms  here. 
Our  heroes  dead,  are  heroes  still. 

The  grand  old  past  stirs  you  and  me, 
Our  hearts  beat  quick,  our  pulses  thrill. 

At  the  very  name  of  Robert  Lee. 

And  as  weak  words  and  wavering  lines 

Do  ill  befit  our  Lee, 
I  look  to  wailing  southern  pines 

And  bid  them  speak  for  me; 
I  ask  the  gulf  that  laps  our  beach, 

With  seething  sob  and  swell, 
To  lend  its  syllables  to  teach 

Of  him  we  loved  so  well. 

I  ask  the  Texas  mocking  bird, 

With  liquid  minstrelsy. 
To  lend  one  note,  from  its  full  throat 

To  help  me  sing  of  Lee! 
I  ask  our  Texas  prairie  flowers 

To  write  in  words  of  flame, 
That  glorious  deeds  and  splendid  hours, 

Illuminate  his  name. 


DRY  STORIES  53 


For  our  Southland,  with  mountains  grand. 

And  peaceful  valleys  sweet; 
With  rock-ribbed  hills  and  gentle  rills 

That  laugh  about  their  feet. 
With  storm-lit  skies,  and  azure  dyes 

Still  nooks,  and  prairies  free — 
These  in  their  tenderness  and  strength — 

Express  the  soul  of  Lee. 

Whether  we  view  him  at  Fredericksburg, 

When  victory  blazed  his  path; 
Or  at  Gettysburg  with  its  struggle  fierce. 

And  terrible  aftermath. 
Whether  in  leading  retreating  host, 

Or  whether  advancing  van — 
With  all  his  courage  and  his  power 

He  was  a  gentle,  loving  man. 

He  met  defeat,  but  years  repeat 

The  glory  of  his  fame; 
His  flag  went  down,  but  the  laurel  crown 

Still  rests  upon  his  name. 
O  name  so  fair,  O  fame  so  rare — 

You  help  all  men  to  see. 
That  the  noble  heart,  which  bears  its  part 

Meets  always — victory! 

In  Lee's  dear  name,  in  Lee's  clear  fame. 

May  we  this  lesson  trace: 
A  lost  cause  is  not  honor  gone. 

Defeat  is  not  disgrace. 
Come  grief,  come  joy,  as  seasons  roll, 

Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 
Keep  we  the  brave,  untarnished  soul. 

And  we  have  won  the  fgiht. 


